STORIES   OF    THE 
STRUGGLE 


BY 
MORRIS    WINCHEVSKY 


CHICAGO 
CHARLES  H.  KERR  &  COMPANY 

1908 


S 


1-73 


Copyright  1908 
By  LEOPOLD  BENEDICT 


All  Rights  Reserved 


TO 
EUGENE  V.  DEBS 


CONTENTS 

WHY  HE  DID  IT i 

GRISHKA'S  ROMANCE 19 

MARTINELLI'S  MARRIAGE 31 

HE,  SHE  AND  IT 44 

COMMUNISM  A  FAILURE 55 

THE  GROWLING  EDITOR 66 

THE  KNOUT  AND  THE  FOG 73 

MALEK'S  FRIEND 82 

CRANKY  OLD  IKE 95 

THE  PRICE  OF  FREEDOM 106 

THE  MAN  LAZY  ON  PRINCIPLE 113 

ECK-KE 122 

ELIAKUM  ZUNSER 129 

THE  BLUES  VERSUS  THE  REDS 139 

A  PERSEVERING  WOMAN 149 


NOTE 

Of  the  stories  included  in  this  little  vol 
ume  five  were  published  in  England.  They 
were:  "  Grishka's  Romance  "  (in  the  Lon 
don  Sun),  "  The  Knout  and  the  Fog"  and 
"  The  Man  Lazy  on  Principle  "  (in  Justice), 
and  "  Cranky  Old  Ike  "  and  "  He,  She  and 
It  "  (in  the  Social  Democrat). 

Considerably  altered  and  enlarged,  the 
first-named  story  was  afterwards  repub- 
lished  in  the  illustrated  New  York  monthly, 
The  Comrade,  while  "  Cranky  Old  Ike " 
was  in  this  country  reprinted  in  the  Worker. 

"  Why  He  Did  It  "  and  "  The  Blues  vs. 
the  Reds  "  were  specially  written  for  The 
Comrade. 

The  character  sketch  "  Eliakum  Zunser  " 
appeared  in  The  Era,  a  magazine  devoted  to 
Jewish  life  and  literature,  while  "  Eck-Ke," 
also  a  sketch  from  life,  is  now  published  for 
the  first  time.  So,  too,  is  "  A  Persevering 
Woman." 


NOTE 

"  Martinelli's  Marriage "  and  "  The 
Growling  Editor "  were  first  published  in 
The  Social  Democratic  Herald,  then  in  Chi 
cago,  and  reprinted  in  the  London  Social 
Democrat,  the  monthly  magazine  of  the  S. 
D.  F.  mentioned  above. 

The  New  York  "  Worker  "  first  printed 
"  Communism  a  Failure "  and  "  Malek's 
Friend." 


The  incidents  in  every  one  of  the  stories, 
at  least  in  those  which  are  stories  in  the  full 
sense  of  the  word,  have  really  taken  place, 
and  are,  therefore,  illustrative  of  the  unwrit 
ten  history  of  the  great  struggle  for  free 
dom  and  equality  now  going  on  all  over  the 
world.  "  Behind  the  Scenes  in  the  Socialist 
Movement "  would  in  a  sense  have  aptly  de 
scribed  them. 

M.  W. 

NEW  YORK,  March  3,  1908. 


STORIES  OF  THE 
STRUGGLE 

WHY  HE  DID  IT 
(1901) 

Dr.  Binsky's  spacious  parlor  on  East 
Broadway  was  the  scene  of  a  very  animated 
discussion  one  Sunday  evening1  a  few 
months  ago.  Besides  several  brother-phys 
icians,  attracted,  I  am  afraid,  less  by  the 
fame  of  their  confrere  than  by  the  really 
charming  personality  of  his  youthful  and 
cultured  spouse,  there  were  on  that  occa 
sion  a  couple  of  journalists  off  duty,  some 
married  and  unmarried  ladies,  all,  needless 
to  say,  as  young  as  possible,  and  a  fair 
sprinkling  of  lawyers,  successful  and  other 
wise.  As  is  always  the  case  among  what 
you  might  call  the  Upper  400  on  the  Lower 
East  Side,  everybody  talked  Russian,  had 


2  STORIES   OF    THE   STRUGGLE 

Darwin  and  Spencer  at  his  or  her  ringer's 
tips,  and  a  good  deal  to  say  about  Gorki,  the 
last  Grand  Opera  season,  and  the  prospec 
tive  yacht-race,  though  in  a  much  lesser 
degree. 

But  nobody  said  it,  like  the  rest  of  the 
world,  they  had  little  or  no  thought  for 
anything  except  the  Buffalo  tragedy.  The 
gloom  which  pervaded  the  country  was  visi 
ble  more  or  less  on  every  countenance,  par 
ticularly  among  those  of  the  guests  who 
were  either  avowed  anarchists  or  to  some 
extent  in  sympathy  with  the  anarchist  phi 
losophy.  Not  even  the  appearance  on  the 
table  of  the  samovar,  the  genuine  article,  if 
you  please,  the  one  thing  every  man  and 
woman  born  on  Russian  soil  either  loves  or 
affects  to  love,  could  do  aught  to  mitigate 
the  prevailing  depression. 

For  a  moment,  and  for  one  only,  was 
there  something  like  a  mirthful  breeze  in 
that  evening's  heavy  atmosphere.  It  was 
caused  by  an  innocent  remark  of  Mrs.  Bin- 
sky's  pretty  little  daughter,  a  child  about 
four  years  old,  who,  upon  hearing  the  name 
of  the  dead  president  mentioned,  wanted 


WHY    HE   DID    IT  3 

to  know  whether  or  not  "  Mr.  Bryan  did 
it." 

In  the  course  of  the  conversation  nearly 
every  case  in  history  bearing  some  sort  of 
resemblance  to  the  one  in  question  was  gone 
through.  The  story  of  Sisera  and  Jael  was 
hinted  at  by  a  gentleman  well  versed  in 
Bible  lore,  and,  not  finding  any  acceptance, 
owing  to  its  palpable  irrelevance,  at  once 
gave  way  to  a  consideration  of  other  inci 
dents  in  the  records  of  the  past.  But 
neither  the  story  of  Tell,  nor  the  tragic  end 
of  Csesar,  nor  that  of  Marat,  nor  the  assas 
sination  of  Alexander  II.,  of  King  Hum 
bert,  nor  any  other  case  of  that  nature 
seemed  analogous  enough  to  throw  the  least 
light  on  the  matter  under  discussion. 

"  It's  no  use  talking,"  said  one  of  the 
lawyers,  laconically  summing  up  the  case, 
"  the  thing  is  simply  unaccountable." 

"  Yes,  absolutely  unaccountable !  "  the 
hostess  chimed  in,  and  the  counsellor's  opin 
ion  was  accepted  "  nemine  contradicente." 

At  this  point  an  elderly  man  came  into 
the  parlor  from  the  adjoining  room,  where 
lie  had  been  sitting  on  the  couch  and  smok- 


4  STORIES    OF    THE    STRUGGLE 

ing  and  studying  the  ceiling,  evidently  un- 
desirous  to  take  any  part  in  what  he  must 
have  considered  a  fruitless  talk.  As  he 
took  a  seat  by  the  table,  he  looked  like  one 
just  arisen  from  a  long  sleep,  who  had 
dreamed  of  something,  and  felt  like  telling 
it. 

"  I  am  afraid,  you  are  wrong,"  said  he, 
addressing  the  lady  of  the  house,  who,  with 
out  consulting  his  wishes,  had  meanwhile 
filled  and  placed  before  him  a  glass  of  tea 
with  lemon  — "  the  thing  is  perfectly  ac 
countable,  provided  you  start  from  the 
right  premises.  With  you  the  only  alter 
native  seems  to  be :  crazy  or  criminal,  and 
that  is  where  you  are  all  wrong.  Not  that 
the  man  may  not  be  either  the  one  or  the 
other,  or  both.  But  your  theory  besides  be 
ing  purely  hypothetical,  is,  from  a  psycho 
logical  point  of  view,  entirely  worthless. 
Whether  you  call  it  crime  or  madness,  the 
question  still  remains,  what  was  it  that  led 
the  man  to  do  it?  Now,  to  give  a  satis 
factory  answer,  even  to  attempt  to  do  so, 
one  would  have  to  know  a  great  deal  more 
about  the  perpetrator  of  that  deed  than 


WHY    HE   DID    IT  5 

what  can  be  learned  from  the  papers,  and  I 
don't.  How  should  I,  seeing  that  even  the 
anarchists  disclaim  all  knowledge  of  him. 
However,  I  know  of  a  parallel  case  which 
might  throw  some  light  on  this  mystery. 
It  is  a  pretty  long  story.  Would  you  have 
the  patience  to  hear  it  ?  " 

Most  of  those  present  now  found  they 
had  some  very  pressing  engagements  else 
where.  They  anticipated  a  very  long  talk, 
and  our  friend  was  by  no  means  a  popular 
talker.  Those,  however,  of  us  who  stayed 
to  the  end  certainly  had  no  reason  to  con 
sider  their  attention  ill  bestowed. 

Here  is  his  story  slightly  boiled  down. 

As  you  all  know,  the  beginning  of  the 
terrorist  movement  in  Russia  coincided  with 
the  increasing  persecution  of  the  socialists 
in  Germany  as  a  result  of  the  Coercion  Act 
passed  by  the  Reichstag  in  the  fall  of  1878 
at  the  instance  of  Prince  Bismark.  Italy 
and  Austria,  anxious  not  to  be  behindhand 
in  this  matter,  naturally  followed  suit,  with 
out  having  recourse  to  any  special  legisla 
tion,  their  existing  laws  proving  severe 
enough.  As  a  consequence  of  such  a  state 


0  STORIES   OF   THE   STRUGGLE 

of  affairs,  France  and  Switzerland,  and, 
above  all,  England,  were  daily  receiving 
"  reds  "  as  fugitives  from  those  other  coun 
tries. 

I,  at  that  time,  lived  in  Paris,  and  there 
frequently  visited  the  international  socialist 
gathering-place  on  Rue  d'Arbre  Sec.  The 
German  element  predominating,  most  of  the 
lectures  were  delivered  in  that  language. 

One  Saturday  night  we  had  what  you 
might  call  a  rare  treat.  A  charming  Rus 
sian  young  lady,  a  medical  student  from  the 
Sorbonne,  gave  us  in  as  good  German  as 
could  be  desired  a  discourse  on  "  Woman 
under  Socialism."  In  spite  of  her  rather 
faulty  delivery  she  produced  a  great  impres 
sion,  and  was  voted,  with  one  dissentient 
voice,  a  success  by  acclamation.  That  one 
"  non-content "  was  a  young  man,  decid 
edly  good  looking,  well  built,  with  a  south 
ern  temper  and  a  northen  complexion.  His 
nationality  was  a  mystery  then  as  after 
wards.  The  fair  lecturer  had  no  sooner  sat 
down  than  he  rose,  or  rather  jumped  to  his 
feet,  and  in  the  guise  of  a  question  roundly 
abused  her.  According  to  him  she  had  been 


WHY    HE    DID    IT  7 

talking  the  rankest  moonshine,  was  nothing 
but  one  of  those  milk-and-water  socialists, 
who  fooled  themselves  and  others  with  the 
absurd  notion,  that  a  social  revolution  could 
be  carried  out  by  means  of  corrupt  ballots. 
The  chairman  being  more  or  less  in  sym 
pathy  with  the  young  "  questioner's  "  views 
(he  had  been  expelled  from  his  native  Ber 
lin  under  the  "  minor  state  of  siege  "  then 
recently  proclaimed  by  the  Fatherland)  the 
speaker  went  on  in  that  strain  for  quite  a 
while,  his  fire  and  fury  increasing  in  volume 
all  the  time.  Having  most  emphatically  de 
clared  that  the  lecturer  was  nothing  but  a 
mere  woman  after  all,  he  resumed  his  seat 
amid  some  applause. 

A  lively  debate  ensued.  When  all  was 
over,  the  two  young  people  came  danger 
ously  near  quarreling,  a  contingency  which 
was  only  averted  by  the  lady  suddenly  put 
ting  on  her  things,  and  leaving  the  hall,  es 
corted  by  one  of  the  Russian  male  students 
there  present. 

I  would  fain  dwell  a  little  longer  on  what 
is  to  follow,  but,  not  to  try  your  patience  too 
much,  I  will  just  say  that,  as  is  not  infre- 


8  STORIES    OF    THE   STRUGGLE 

quently  the  case,  the  altercation  of  that  even 
ing  soon  led  to  as  romantic  an  "  intrigue  " 
as  ever  was  concocted  by  the  impudent 
winged  little  rascal  we  have  all  of  us  known, 
mostly  to  our  sorrow. 

The  day  after  the  encounter  the  young 
man  felt  he  had  been  more  than  unduly 
harsh  in  his  attack  on  the  young  lady.  He 
had  to  go  and  apologise,  he  certainly  could 
do  no  less,  oh,  no!  He  made  up  his  mind 
to  try  and  meet  her  at  the  entrance  of  the 
Sorbonne  as  she  was  leaving,  after  her  stud 
ies,  but  more  than  a  week  passed  by  without 
his  succeeding  in  catching  a  glimpse  of  her. 
One  way  or  another  he  finally  learned  that 
she  was  ill,  and  would  not  come  back  to  col 
lege  very  soon. 

While  Peter  (that  is  what  we  shall  call 
him,  though  it  was  not  his  name)  was  in 
this  plight,  Agnes  (by  which  name  I  shall 
henceforth  let  the  young  lady  go)  received 
a  letter  from  Russia  containing  a  piece  of 
bad  news.  Her  favorite  brother,  a  student 
at  the  Moscow  university,  had  been  arrested 
in  connection  with  some  rather  serious  po 
litical  affairs,  and  .  .  .  well,  you  can 


WHY    HE    DID    IT  9 

easily  imagine  the  rest.  It  was  this  piece  of 
intelligence  which  had  so  upset  her  as  to 
render  her  too  ill  to  go  on  with  her  studies. 

After  the  lapse  of  some  weeks,  perhaps 
months,  I  would  not  be  certain,  Peter  at 
last  succeeded  in  rinding  out  her  where 
abouts,  and  one  day  timidly  knocked  at  her 
door.  To  his  great  surprise  she  received 
him  not  only  kindly,  but  even  cordially, 
and  as  he  stammered  his  excuses  she  inter 
rupted  him  with  the  remark: 

"  You  were  quite  right.  I  talked  like  a 
goose,  and  I  know  better  now.  The  ruling 
classes  are  bent  on  violence,  and  they  shall 
have  all  they  want." 

Peter  was  amazed.  The  girl  was  entirely 
changed.  The  conversation  which  followed 
revealed  the  reason  for  her  transformation, 
as  he  inwardly  called  it;  the  trouble  into 
which  her  brother  had  been  plunged  was  at 
the  bottom  of  it  all. 

He  went  away  from  her  elated.  As  a 
full-fledged  revolutionist,  Agnes  appeared 
to  him  head  and  shoulders  above  all  women 
he  had  ever  met.  She  was  simply  perfect, 
and  in  spite  of  the  unqualified  forgiveness 


IO  STORIES    OF    THE    STRUGGLE 

she  had  just  extended  to  him,  he  could  have 
torn  his  tongue  out  for  the  brutality  he  had 
displayed  toward  her  that  night  at  the  re 
union. 

As  time  wore  on  they  met  more  and  more 
often. 

Meanwhile  his  reputation  in  the  socialist 
circles  grew.  He  often  took  part  in  the  dis 
cussions  on  Rue  d'Arbre  Sec,  where  his 
eloquence  came  to  be  universally  recognized. 
One  day  he  delivered  a  lecture,  taking  for 
his  subject,  "  The  Degeneracy  of  the  Social 
Democracy  in  Germany."  He  went  for 
Bebel  and  Liebknecht  in  a  manner  that 
would  have  gladdened  the  heart  of  old 
Bakunin  himself.  Nothing  more  violent  was 
heard  from  the  platform  of  that  meeting- 
place.  Nothing  so  violent  was  so  splendidly 
phrased. 

All  the  time  the  speech  was  in  progress 
Agnes'  face  was  a  study  worthy  the  atten 
tion  of  a  great  painter.  It  attracted,  how 
ever,  only  that  of  a  single  individual,  a 
dark-eyed,  ill-favored  man,  about  five  years 
her  senior,  who  had  evidently  come  to  the 
meeting  with  the  set  purpose  of  observing( 


WHY    HE  DID   IT  II 

her.  When  the  meeting  was  over,  and  he 
saw  Agnes  going  out  of  the  hall  on  the  arm 
of  Peter,  his  mind  was  made  up.  They 
were  in  love  with  each  other. 

A  few  days  after  this,  Peter's  lecture  came 
up  for  discussion  at  the  dinner  table  in  Slav- 
sky's  Polish  restaurant.  Agnes,  who  was 
present,  made  no  attempt  to  conceal  her 
gratification  at  the  praise  so  generously  and 
generally  given  to  Peter's  spirited  discourse. 
At  the  same  time  she  could  not  help  noticing 
that  the  individual  just  mentioned  was  busy 
whispering  to  a  lady  she  did  not  know,  while 
occasionally  glancing  at  herself  in  a  mys 
terious  sort  of  way. 

She  was  on  the  point  of  leaving  the  house, 
having  just  settled  her  bill,  when  the  fol 
lowing  phrase,  venomously  pronounced, 
struck  her  ear: 

"  Not  everybody  who  talks  revolution  is 
a  revolutionist.  In  France,  more  than  any 
where  else,  there  is  such  a  thing  as  an  agent 
provocateur." 

Without  knowing  why,  Agnes  felt  stung 
to  the  quick. 

In  the  evening  Peter  came  to  see  her.   She 


12  STORIES    OF    THE   STRUGGLE 

received  him  in  a  way  that  made  him  feel 
very  happy  and  at  the  same  time  a  little 
perplexed.  There  was  an  unusual  amount 
of  ostentation  about  her  manner,  a  kind  of 
exaggeration  in  her  protestations  of  friend 
ship  in  which  he  thought  he  could  detect 
something  like  a  false  note.  She  looked  a 
little  pale,  too. 

"Is  anything  the  matter  with  you?"  he 
asked  her. 

"  Nothing,"  she  said  after  a  moment's 
hesitation,  "  I  have  a  slight  headache." 

He  proposed  a  walk.  The  fresh  air 
would  do  her  good.  She  thought  so  too, 
and  they  went. 

They  reached  the  Rue  de  Rivoli,  and 
started  to  walk  toward  the  Louvre  along 
that  busy  thoroughfare. 

A  number  of  things  were  discussed  as 
they  strolled  along,  and  Victor  Hugo's 
"  History  of  a  Crime  "  having  been  touched 
upon  by  Agnes,  the  conversation  which  had 
hitherto  lacked  spirit,  became  more  like 
what  a  talk  n^urslly  should  be  among  true 
dwell  T  ntin  Ouarter.  At  'his 

occurred  >vhicli, 


WHY    HE   DID    IT  13 

while  insignificant  in  itself,  tended  to  put  a 
damper  on  the  animated  discussion  of  the 
two  young  people. 

A  well-dressed  man  had  passed -them  by, 
walking  in  the  opposite  direction,  had  raised 
his  hat,  and  exchanged  a  friendly  nod  with 
Peter.  Agnes  stole  a  glance  at  her  com 
panion,  and  he  appeared  to  her  somewhat 
confused.  She  was,  of  course,  delicate 
enough  to  ask  no  questions,  and,  as  Peter 
did  not  volunteer  any  explanation,  she  made 
an  effort  to  resume  the  "  History  of  a 
Crime,"  but  without  avail.  A  noise  of  some 
kind,  coming  from  a  Cafe  close  by,  en 
gaged  their  attention  for  a  while,  and,  that 
over,  they  both  agreed  it  was  time  they 
crossed  the  river  to  the  South,  so  that  Ag 
nes  might  go  home. 

"  Strange !  He  never  told  me  who  that 
man  was,"  she  almost  audibly  said  to  her 
self  as  she  was  getting  ready  for  her  night's 
rest. 

She  tossed  about  in  bed  for  a  long  time, 
unable  to  go  off  to  sleep.  She  recalled  the 
man's  searching  look,  and  military  gait,  and 
the  more  she  brooded  over  it  all,  the  more 


14  STORIES    OF    THE   STRUGGLE 

she  felt  convinced  that  Peter  was  acquainted 
with  some  queer  people. 

In  the  morning  she  got  up  greatly  out  of 

sorts,  having  spent  a  very  restless  night. 
%     *     * 

In  the  spring  of  1880  a  free  fight  took 
place  in  the  hall  in  the  Rue  d'Arbre  Sec 
after  one  of  the  usual  weekly  lectures.  I 
have  never  been  able  to  ascertain  the  real 
cause  of  it.  There  was  a  rumor  to  the 
effect  that  an  agent  of  the  secret  police,  in 
the  guise  of  a  red-hot  revolutionist,  had 
started  the  whole  affair.  But  whatever 
the  cause,  the  result  was  disastrous.  Some 
half-dozen  of  us  were  arrested  on  the  spot, 
and  a  week  or  so  afterward  expelled,  as 
foreigners,  from  France.  Agnes  and  my 
self,  the  most  innocent  of  all.  were  among 
the  number. 

Peter's  absence  on  that  occasion  struck 
all  of  us  as,  to  say  the  least,  very  peculiar. 

On  the  second  of  April  we  landed  in  Eng 
land.  In  London  we  all  joined  the  Com 
munist  Workingmen's  Educational  Club. 
With  a  few  exceptions  the  members  were 
all  Germans,  so  that  our  ignorance  of  the 


WHY    HE    DID    IT  15 

English  language  hardly  bothered  us.  Ag 
nes  became  a  general  favorite. 

Exactly  what  her  relations  with  Peter 
were  at  that  time  has  never  transpired. 
When,  however,  he  joined  us  in  London, 
and  it  was  noticed  that  Agnes  not  only  never 
came  to  the  Club  or  left  it  in  his  company, 
but  very  rarely  put  in  an  appearance  at  all, 
it  became  pretty  evident  that  a  "  rupture  " 
must  have  taken  place. 

Not  to  weary  you  with  too  many  details, 
I  will  just  say  that  the  more  people  in  Lon 
don  saw  of  Peter  or  heard  of  him  in  public, 
the  more  Agnes  was  praised  for  keeping 
aloof  from  him.  And  as  his  speeches  grew 
in  violence  just  in  proportion  as  the  general 
distrust  toward  him  became  more  and  more 
palpable  to  him,  that  same  violence  of 
language  went  on  increasing  in  intensity 
and  volubility.  Thus  his  desire  to  prove 
himself  sincere  only  tended  to  convince 
everybody  else  of  the  contrary,  and,  then, 
as  he  came  to  realize  it  more  and  more  fully, 
and,  owing  to  that  very  fact  his  face  and 
manner  with  further  effort  betrayed  more 
and  more  a  kind  of  uncomfortable  feeling, 


1 6  STORIES    OF    THE    STRUGGLE 

the  verdict :  "  guilty "  was  universally 
agreed  upon.  It  was  deferred  solely  be 
cause  there  was,  after  all,  no  direct  evidence 
to  justify  its  promulgation. 

To  the  chain  of  circumstantial  evidence 
the  last  and  most  important  link  was  added. 
In  the  fall  of  the  same  year  a  letter  was  re 
ceived  from  Germany  conveying  the  start 
ling  intelligence  that  a  man  who  had  been 
the  steward  of  the  Club,  and  had  left  Eng 
land  to  claim  an  inheritance  in  Hamburg, 
was  arrested  in  that  city  promptly  on  his 
arrival.  It  being  known  that  Peter  lodged 
with  him,  there  no  longer  seemed  to  be  any 
room  for  doubt,  and  he  was  given  to  under 
stand  that  his  room  was  preferable  to  his 
company  in  the  Club  and  elsewhere. 

Meanwhile  his  passion  for  Agnes  fairly 
devoured  him.  She  now  treated  him  with 
open  contempt,  and,  as  time  wore  on  he 
became  mentally  and  physically  a  ruined 
man. 

After  a  lapse  of  several  months,  during 
which  he  almost  seemed  to  avoid  her,  Peter 
one  evening  madly  rushed  into  her  room. 


WHY    HE    DID    IT  17 

Without  waiting  for  any  explanation  on  his 
part,  Agnes  told  him  to  go. 

"  I  am  going,"  he  said,"  "  did  not  come 
to  stay  -  He  stopped  as  if  to  regain  his 
breath,  and  then  ejaculated  in  a  manner  that 
horrified  the  girl : 

"  I  will  prove  to  you,  Agnes,  that  I  am 
the  only  true  man  in  your  whole  crowd." 
Thereupon  he  slammed  the  door,  and  went 
away. 

For  the  space  of  a  year  or  so  he  disap 
peared  from  the  surface,  but  our  new  stew 
ard,  having  one  day  run  across  him  on  the 
street,  declared  that  he  looked  like  a  perfect 
maniac. 

All  the  time  the  Fenian  outrages,  as  they 
were  called,  were  increasing  in  fury,  terri 
bly  agitating  the  public  mind,  and  finally 
culminated  in  the  assassination  of  Caven 
dish  and  Burke  in  Dublin.  Shortly  after 
ward  a  young  man  attempted  to  kill  a  mem 
ber  of  the  royal  family,  and  was  consigned 
to  a  lunatic  asylum  without  much  ado. 

"  Tell  her,  I'm  not  a  spy !  "  he  muttered 
as  he  was  caught,  which  was  all  that  was 
ever  got  out  of  him. 


l8  STORIES   OF   THE   STRUGGLE 

Needless  to  say  the  young  man  was  Peter. 
*     *     * 

Turning  to  Mrs.  Binsky,  our  friend 
added : 

"  Some  day  it  will  be  found  that  this  is 
what  was  the  matter  with  the  assassin  of 
the  President,  this  or  something  like  it. 
Anyway,  '  unaccountable  '  is  a  very  foolish 
word,  Madam. 


GRISHKA'S  ROMANCE 

(1893) 

It  goes  without  saying  that  a  genuine 
Russian  military  uniform  in  an  East  End 
Jewish  "  cookshop  "  in  London  was  then, 
and  would  probably  be  even  now,  a  remark 
able  phenomenon.  When,  therefore,  I 
found  on  entering,  one  bleak,  rainy  evening 
in  the  fall  of  1883,  Mr.  Levey's  Mansell 
street  establishment  —  as  famous,  by  the 
way,  for  its  pickled  cucumbers  as  for  its 
chess  devotees  —  all  eyes  intently  fixed  on 
Grishka,  I  was  not  at  all  surprised. 

He  was  a  tall,  tanned-faced,  gray-eyed, 
shrewd-looking,  clean-shaven  specimen  of 
Russian-Jewish  humanity.  From  time  to 
time  there  was  on  his  face  a  kind  of  melan 
choly  smile  which,  accompanied  by  a  ner 
vous  twitch  of  the  lips,  no  sooner  made  its 
appearance  than  it  was  subdued,  as  if  cir 
cumstances  did  not  warrant  it.  A  cursory 

19 


2O  STORIES    OF    THE   STRUGGLE 

glance  sufficed  to  tell  the  least  observant 
that  the  heart  of  the  late  "  Private  of  In 
fantry  "  harbored  a  great  sorrow. 

The  chess  board  was  deserted.  A  black 
king  and  a  white  bishop  were  afterward  dis 
covered  in  a  mutilated  condition  under  the 
table.  The  cat  had  it  all  her  own  way  in 
the  kitchen,  while  Solomon  Fiddle,  who  had 
the  reputation  of  incessantly  "  smoking  like 
a  chimney,"  had  rolled  a  paper  cigarette  and 
applied  it  to  his  nether  lip,  with  the  evident 
intention  of  getting  out  his  tongue,  so  as  to 
moisten  the  paper  edge,  but  was  too  absorbed 
in  what  was  going  on  to  finish  the  job  in 
hand. 

Grishka  had  apparently  been  talking  for 
some  time  when  I  came  into  the  old,  dingy 
dining-room.  He  seemed  to  have  begun 
his  narrative  in  a  reluctant,  indolent  manner, 
for  he  was  getting  more  and  more  animated 
as  he  was  proceeding. 

Who  was  Grunya  ?  —  he  said. —  You 
will  see  presently. 

Our  regiment  was  transferred  to  Wilna. 
We  were  billeted  with  the  house-holders. 


GRISHKAS    ROMANCE  21 

They  were  either  Poles  or  Lithuanians,  or 
Jews.  Russians?  Hardly  any.  It  was 
my  good  fortune  to  get  into  a  house  on  Sa- 
vitch  street,  a  second-floor  flat,  the  private 
residence  of  a  well-to-do  Jewish  shop 
keeper.  He  was,  as  I  subsequently  learned, 
a  widower,  whose  son  was  in  St.  Peters 
burg,  studying  medicine,  while  his  daughter 
was  staying  at  home,  keeping  house  for  him. 
She,  at  that  time  barely  out  of  her  teens, 
was  amiable,  though  not  exactly  beautiful, 
brave  enough  to  face  Osman  Pasha  at 
Plevna,  and  as  kind-hearted  as  any  sister  of 
mercy  in  Lithuania.  Her  name  was 
Grunya. 

At  first  she  fought  shy  of  me.  I  noticed 
she  was  always  hiding  the  things  she  was 
reading  at  my  approach.  I  might  have 
been  a  spy,  you  know.  But  that  did  not  last 
long.  By  inadvertance  she  one  evening  left 
on  the  table  in  the  sitting-room  a  printed 
sheet  on  which  there  was  a  little  revolu 
tionary  song.  I  read  it.  It  sent  a  thrill 
right  through  me.  I  thought  it  the  most 
blood-thirsty  thing  ever  written.  This  is 
how  it  ran : 


22  STORIES    OF    THE    STRUGGLE 

"Hail  the  cutler,  lads. 
Who  three  knives  made,  lads  — 

Glory ! 

And  the  first  good  blade 
Priests  to  kill  he  made  — 

Glory ! 

Then  the  sharks  of  trade 
Slays   the   second   blade  — • 

Glory  ! 

While,  our  prayers  heard, 
Lays  low  our  Czar  the  third  — 

Glory ! 

As  I  read  it  for  the  second  time,  she 
in.  The  brave  little  woman  gazed  at  me 
and  said  nothing.  I,  too,  was  silent.  I 
gave  her  the  paper,  which  she  hid.  What 
she  read  in  my  face  I  don't  know,  but  she 
evidently  made  up  her  mind  that  whatever 
my  opinions,  I  was  not  likely  to  betray  her. 

After  this  she  never  again  distrusted  me, 
without  exactly  taking  me  into  her  confi 
dence.  I  still  was  to  her  the  soldier  billeted 
in  the  house,  a  sort  of  unbidden  guest  who, 
as  the  saying  goes,  "  is  worse  than  a  Tar 
tar." 

This  state  of  affairs  one  day  underwent  a 


GRISHKA'S  ROMANCE  23 

sudden  change.  It  happened  in  the  follow 
ing-  manner : 

Pipe  in  mouth  I  had  been  sitting  for  an 
hour  or  so  by  the  window,  looking  out  into 
the  street.  All  at  once  I  jumped  up,  made 
for  her  bedroom,  where  I  was  sure  she  had 
some  Socialist  leaflets  and  booklets  in  a 
bureau.  Full  of  amazement  she  saw  me 
rush  out  of  her  room,  all  the  while  excitedly 
stuffing  the  bosom  pockets  of  my  shinel* 
with  her  "  literature."  Without  giving  her 
time  to  recover  from  her  astonishment  I 
snatched  out  of  her  hand  a  pamphlet  she 
had  been  reading.  She  was  on  the  point  of 
making  some  angry  remark  when  the  door 
was  unceremoniously  opened  on  the  outside. 
I  had  resumed  my  seat  by  the  window,  and 
the  District  Police  Commissioner  walked  in, 
leaving  the  door  ajar.  In  the  hall  there 
were  three  desyatniks.t 

He  saluted  Grunya  with  a  few  words  of 
mock  politeness,  and  then  proceeded  to 
search  the  house.  With  the  bunch  of  keys 

*  Overcoat. 
f  Constables. 


24  STORIES   OF   THE   STRUGGLE 

in  her  hand,  she  followed  him  through 
every  part  of  the  place,  unlocking,  at  his 
command,  every  drawer,  box  or  closet,  all 
of  which  he  could  not  have  examined  more 
thoroughly  had  he  been  after  some  hidden 
treasure.  Presently  I  heard  voices  in  her 
bedroom.  I  got  up  and  stationed  myself 
near  the  door.  I  was  afraid  I  might  not 
have  cleared  out  everything  after  all.  The 
wardrobe  was  first  opened,  then  the  bureau. 
Every  bit  of  clothing  was  minutely  searched, 
pockets  being  turned  out,  and  the  lining  ex 
amined.  That  done,  he  pulled  the  cases  off 
the  pillows,  felt  all  the  matresses,  lifted  from 
the  floor  carpets  and  rugs,  and  surveyed  the 
walls.  Empty-handed  he  came  into  the  sit 
ting-room  where  I  was.  On  a  shelf  there 
were  some  books.  He  took  them  up  one  by 
one,  carefully  turning  the  leaves,  and  in  the 
case  of  the  books  that  were  bound,  looking 
into  the  backs  as  he  opened  them  in  the  mid 
dle  and  flattened  them  out.  Having  raised 
all  the  pictures  on  the  walls,  he  satsified  him 
self  that  he  had  come  on  a  fool's  errand, 
and  looked  rather  sheepish. 

At  this  point  I  could  not  help  noticing  a 


GRISHKA  S    ROMANCE  25 

change  in  his  manner.  His  politeness 
toward  her  had  become  perceptibly  more 
sincere,  his  face  assuming  a  kinder  expres 
sion.  After  a  while  I  saw  Grunya  turn 
pale  at  something  he  whispered  to  her.  She 
stood  aghast  for  a  moment.  Then  she  gave 
him  a  curt  reply  which  nearly  upset  him. 
At  once  his  face  resumed  its  habitual  of 
ficially-rigorous  expression  and,  as  he  turned 
toward  the  constables  in  the  doorway,  he 
gave  them  to  understand  that  there  was  no 
occasion  for  staying  any  longer  in  the  house. 

He  was  almost  on  the  threshold  when  he 
retraced  his  steps  and  came  up  to  Grunya. 
With  an  evil-portending  smile  he  said  he 
had  reason  to  suspect  that  she  had  some 
papers  concealed  under  her  bodice. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  he  said,  "  to  be  under  the 
necessity  of  asking  you  — " 

I  flared  up  in  an  instant. 

"  She  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  I 
thundered,  "  not  while  I  am  here,  at  any 
rate!  Be  off,  sir!  You  may  get  me  into 
Catorgat  for  the  remainder  of  my  life,  but 
t!:is  young  lady  will  not  be  insulted  if  I  can 

\  Penal  servitude  in  Siberian  mines. 


26  STORIES    OF    THE    STRUGGLE 

prevent   it.     So  make  haste  and  be  off !  " 

I  suppose  he  knew  right  well  that  the 
dirty  thing  he  suggested  was  illegal,  so  he 
said  nothing  beyond  asking  for  pen,  ink  and 
paper,  which  I  gave  him  myself.  He  then 
took  a  seat  at  the  table,  drew  up  a  protocol, 
setting  down  my  name,  my  regiment,  and, 
no  doubt,  my  offence.  As  he  got  up  and 
was  about  to  depart  he  said  to  me  in  a  tone 
of  affected  coolness: 

"  All  this,  my  fine  young  man,  will  be 
made  known  to  the  proper  authorities. 
Ye-es!  Good-bye!" 

He  was  gone. 

Grunya  and  I  stood  facing  one  another. 
Her  gaze  was  too  much  for  me.  I  have 
faced  death  more  than  once  in  the  war  with 
Turkey,  but  Grunya's  look  unnerved  me. 
But  I  no  sooner  sat  down  than  I  felt  her 
delicate  arms  around  my  neck  and  a  hearty 
kiss  on  my  forehead. 

Several  days  elapsed.  One  morning,  as 
I  was  amusing  myself  by  scribbling  some 
thing  on  a  scrap  of  paper  Grunya  took  a 
seat  beside  me. 


GRISHKA  S    ROMANCE  27 

"  You  must  tell  me  something  about  your 
life,  Grisha/'  she  said. 

So  she  called  me  Grisha !  Me,  who  never 
was  anything  but  Grishka*  since  I  was  en 
listed  in  the  army. 

I  tried  to  get  out  of  it.  What  was  there 
in  my  life  worth  telling?  But  she  insisted, 
and  I  told  her  all  I  could  think  of  in  a  ramb 
ling  sort  of  way.  How  she  listened! 
Everything  I  related  seemed  to  have  for  her 
an  interest  bordering  on  fascination.  She 
spoke  very  little  on  that  as  on  subsequent  oc 
casions.  When  she  did  talk  at  all  it  was 
for  the  purpose  of  imparting  to  me  some 
knowledge  which  she  invariably  did  without 
in  the  least  displaying  her  intellectual  su 
periority.  At  times  she  would  get  me  to 
talk  about  the  people  and  the  way  they  lived, 
and  would  prophesy  great  things  to  come. 

While  talking  in  this  strain  she  once 
abruptly  asked  me : 

"  Say,  Grisha,  supposing  the  people  re 
volted,  and  you  were  told  to  shoot  them 
down?" 

The  thought  never  occurred  to  me  before. 

*  The  contemptuous  form  for  Grigori. 


28  STORIES    OF    THE    STRUGGLE 

I  did  not,  however,  hesitate  in  my  answer, 
and  it  seemed  to  make  her  very  happy. 

One  evening  we  went  out  together  for  a 
stroll.  On  German  street  Grunya  met 
lots  of  young  men  of  her  acquaintance. 
She  hardly  noticed  them.  After  a  while 
she  said  she  felt  very  tired.  She  took  my 
arm.  As  she  leant  on  it  she  trembled  all 
over.  I  glanced  at  her  from  aside.  What 
may  be  the  matter  with  the  darling?  I 
thought. 

"  I  am  all  right,  my  friend,"  she  said,  as 
if  she  had  heard  me  ask  the  question. 

The  following  morning  she  got  up  later 
than  usual.  I  felt  very  restless  on  that  ac 
count.  The  time  seemed  to  drag  on  in  a 
dreadful  manner.  At  length  she  came  into 
the  dining-room.  As  she  greeted  me  I 
thought  I  had  a  different  person  before  me. 
She  was  coldly  polite,  and  there  was  not  a 
vestige  of  friendliness  in  her  demeanor 
toward  me. 

She  sent  out  the  housemaid  to  make  some 
purchases,  and  then  turned  to  me. 

"  Grigori  Abramovitch,"  she  said. 

I  was  stung  to  the  quick.     It  was  the  first 


GRISHKA  S    ROMANCE  29 

time  she  had  addressed  me  in  that  formal 
way.  How  could  I  have  offended  her?  I 
thought. 

"  You  said  last  night,"  she  went  on, 
"  your  regiment  was  about  to  start  from  here 
in  a  few  days  — 

She  stopped  short  as  if  out  of  breath,  and 
then  continued : 

"  When  you  will  be  gone  I  shall  heed  no 
dangers  —  If  they  come  again  I  wouldn't 
care  whether  they  took  me  or  not  —  We 
may  meet  again.  If  we  do,  you  must 
promise  to  be  — " 

"  Your  faithful  servant,  Grushenka,"  I 
said,  "  ready  to  go  through  flames  and  tor 
rents  for  your  sake,  dear  soul !  You  are  so 
delicate,  child,  so  sensitive,  brave  though 
you  be.  You  want  a  fellow  like  me  to 
serve  and  follow  you  like  a  — " 

"  Don't,  Grisha,  don't  say  that,"  she  in 
terrupted  me.  "  I  need  no  servant  — 
Here,  take  this  to  remember  me  by." 

With  that  she  pulled  a  ring  off  the  fore 
finger  of  her  right  hand  and  put  it  on  my 
smallest  finger.  She  embraced  me,  and  as 
our  lips  met  for  the  first  and  last  time,  she 


3O  STORIES    OF    THE    STRUGGLE 

sobbed    in    a    way    to    break    the    stoutest 

heart. 

*     *     * 

Grishka  stopped.  Somebody  reached 
him  a  tumblerful  of  water,  and  he  took  a 
sip.  He  then  proceeded  with  his  story  in 
short,  crude  sentences,  as  one  who  being  ex 
hausted,  is  anxious  to  be  through  with  his 
tale. 

In  Toula,  he  said,  I  learned  that  she  had 
got  arrested  a  few  weeks  after  I  left  Wilna. 
I  procured  civilian  clothes.  They  did  not 
fit,  but  served  my  purpose.  I  packed  up  my 
uniform  and  bolted.  She  once  said  she 
might  come  to  this  free  country.  So  here 
am  I.  Have  been  for  some  time.  \Yho 
knows?  She  may  escape  and  come  here. 
Am  studying  and  reading  all  I  can  —  for 
her  sake.  I  always  go  to  the  Hamburgh 
docks  whenever  a  steamer  is  due.  May 
meet  her  some  day.  Yesterday  I  got 
drenched  in  the  rain.  Had  to  wait  five 
hours.  Never  mind  that.  Would  any  of 
you  like  to  see  her  ring?  Here  it  is. 

As  he  showed  it  to  us  two  big  tears  stood 
in  his  eyes,  and  not  in  his  alone. 


MARTINELLFS  MARRIAGE 
(1899) 

Everybody  in  our  circle  knew  Martinelli, 
but  very  few  knew  the  great  event  of  his 
life.  That  is  why  only  those  few  under 
stood  him.  There  being  no  longer  any 
harm  in  divulging  his  secret,  I  propose  to 
let  you  all  into  it  without  much  further  ado. 

As  his  name  would  sufficiently  indicate, 
Martinelli  was  an  Italian.  Towards  the 
beginning  of  the  eighties  he  had  settled  in 
the  northwestern  part  of  that  monster  town 
which  is  so  fatal  to  despotism,  weak  lungs 
and  architectural  symmetry,  under  the  name 
of  London. 

It  was  in  the  old  Communist  Working- 
men's  Educational  Club,  then  located  in 
Rose  Street,  Soho  Square,  and  founded  in 
1849  by  Marx  and  Engels,  that  I  made  his 
acquaintance.  He  was  a  tall,  broad-shoul 
dered,  well-proportioned  man,  32  years  old, 
31 


32  STORIES   OF    THE   STRUGGLE 

the  owner  of  the  most  expressive  black  eyes, 
in  the  Club,  and  of  a  moustache  which  could 
not  be  duplicated  very  easily  anywhere  out 
side  a  French  military  haunt. 

He  came  to  London  from  Switzerland, 
where  he  had  studied  medicine,  practised 
Socialism,  offended  against  the  law,  and  was 
expelled  nominally  on  account  of  a  row  in 
which  he  had  got  involved,  but  in  reality  be 
cause  he  was  a  Socialist  who  obtruded  his 
ideas  on  the  people,  much  to  the  chagrin  of 
the  peace-loving  philistine. 

Thanks  to  his  great  linguistic  attain 
ments,  he  soon  succeeded  in  getting,  or 
rather  in  giving,  a  good  many  lessons. 
Were  it  not  for  his  love  of  luxuries  which 
went  to  the  length  of  actually  possessing  a 
piano  —  an  unheard  of  thing  among  bach 
elors  in  our  midst  in  those  days  —  he  would 
have  been  able  to  live  pretty  comfortably, 
and  to  present  a  respectable  appearance  in 
the  matter  of  dress.  As  it  was,  he  was  al 
ways  hard  up,  and  sartorially  what  a  fem 
inine  cockney  of  the  leisured  class  would 
have  called  a  "  fright."  His  overcoat,  a 
garment  ever  on  duty  during  all  the  four 


MARTINELLI  S    MARRIAGE  33 

seasons  of  the  year,  looked  as  if  it  had  never 
known  better  days,  was  several  inches 
shorter  than  his  frock-coat,  and  just  a  shade 
less  shabby;  while  his  trousers,  undersized, 
threadbare  and  terribly  baggy  at  the  knees, 
seemed  to  be  longing  for  the  cast-off  clothes 
heap,  their  last  resting  place,  and  possibly, 
also,  their  original  home. 

I  feel  greatly  tempted  to  describe  his  other 
articles  of  apparel,  but  space  and  a  sense  of 
proportion  forbid  it.  The  truth  is  that  I 
only  mention  them  on  account  of  their  close 
association  to  a  fact,  soon  to  be  stated,  which 
forms  the  key-note  of  the  whole  narrative. 

Martinelli's  negligence  in  dressing  was 
due  not  so  much  to  atrophy  of  the  purse,  as 
to  the  circumstance  that  he  had  gradually 
developed  into  a  confirmed  woman-hater. 
A  persistent  rumor  was  current  among  us 
to  the  effect  that  the  Italian,  while  still  in 
his  native  country,  had  fallen  in  love  with  a 
charming  young  lady,  had  been  rejected, 
ard,  like  many  others,  in  a  similar  plight, 
had  resolved  never,  never  again  to  have  any 
thing  more  to  do  with  the  fair  but  cruel 
sex. 


34  STORIES   OF   THE   STRUGGLE 

One  summer  evening  in  1881  or  1882,  I 
forget  which,  a  miracle  occurred.  On  the 
lounge  in  Martinelli's  "  parlor  " —  he  occu 
pied  a  suite  of  two  rooms,  the  other  one 
serving  as  a  combined  library  and  bed-room 
—  was  seated  a  real  woman,  and  a  young 
one,  to  boot.  It  is  true  she  was  there  in  the 
company  of  her  brother;  all  the  same  the 
thing  was  unprecedented  in  the  annals  of 
the  Italian's  domestic  establishment,  and 
would  probably  not  have  been  credited  on 
anything  short  of  an  affidavit  by  a  trusted 
eye-witness. 

And  yet  there  she  was,  as  large  as  life,  an 
unmistakable  daughter  of  Eve,  flaxen-haired, 
blue-eyed,  as  pretty  as  any  girl  with  a  pro 
pensity  to  higher  mental  culture  ordinarily 
need  be,  and  distinguished  by  that  kind  of 
sad,  shrewd  expression  in  the  face  which 
you  may  have  met  with  in  the  "  better 
class  "  of  Irish  womanhood. 

Olga,  however,  did  not  hail  from  the 
Emerald  Isle.  She  was  a  Russian,  a  native 
of  the  South  of  that  country,  as  was,  need 
less  to  say,  her  big,  rather  plain-faced, 
strongly-built  elder  brother,  who  had  chap- 


MARTINELLI  S    MARRIAGE  35 

eroned    her    into    the    enemy's    dominions. 

On  the  table,  which  looked  unusually  tidy 
and  almost  clean  on  that  occasion,  there 
stood  a  bottle  containing-  some  liquor,  which 
I  will  not  presume  to  specify,  being,  as  a 
temperance  man,  seldom  able  to  tell  with 
any  degree  of  certainty,  cider  from  cham 
pagne.  In  the  vicinity  of  the  bottle  there 
was  an  oblong  half-empty  paper  box  of 
cigarettes  to  which  the  two  young-  men  ap 
plied  themselves  at  very  frequent  intervals. 

After  a  pretty  long  talk  embracing  a  great 
variety  of  subjects  —  a  talk  which  every 
now  and  then  became  so  very  animated,  that 
the  two  young  men  spoke  against  time  and 
each  other  —  they  reached  the  question  of 
matrimony.  That  seemed  to  have  re 
minded  Belsky,  Olga's  brother,  of  some 
thing,  and  he  suddenly  jumped  up  from  his 
seat,  and  said : 

"  I  say,  Martinelli !  Come  with  me  into 
your  bed-room.  I'd  like  to  have  a  word 
with  you  in  private." 

And  turning  to  his  sister,  he  added : 

"  Olga,  my  soul,  sit  down  at  the  piano, 
and  while  away  as  best  you  can,  the  next 


36  STORIES    OF    THE    STRUGGLE 

ten  minutes.  But,  say!  Don't  go  in  for 
anything  Wagnerian;  we  shall  want  to 
hear  each  other  speak." 

As  she  answered,  saying  something  which 
Martinelli  took  to  be  the  nearest  approach 
to  the  English  "  All  right!  "  in  Russian,  he 
realised  that  he  had  for  the  first  time  prop 
erly  looked  at  her,  as  well  as  heard  her  not 
at  all  unmelodious  voice. 

When  the  two  young  men  were  alone  in 
the  book-lined  bed-room,  Belsky  lit  a  fresh 
cigarette,  and  sitting  down  opposite  the 
Italian,  he  blurted  out  the  question : 

"  How  old  are  you,  Martinelli  ?  " 

The  Italian  was  somewhat  taken  aback  by 
the  interrogation. 

"Thirty-two,"  he  said.     "Why?" 

"  Never  mind  why,"  said  the  Russian, 
"  just  tell  me  something  else.  Are  you  still 
as  firmly  as  ever  resolved  to  remain  single 
all  your  life?" 

"What  makes  you  ask  me?  But  of 
course  I  am.", 

"  Listen.  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you 
will  never,  absolutely  never  marry?" 

"  You  are  getting  tiresome,   my   friend. 


MARTINELLTS    MARRIAGE  37 

You  ought  to  know  me  by  this  time,  and  I 
should  not  have  to  inform  you.  of  all  men  i:i 
the  world,  that  I  shun  petticoats  as  I  would 
the  devil  — " 

"  Not  so  loud,"  Belsky  interrupted  him. 
"  My  sister  can  hear  you."  The  Italian 
looked  annoyed,  and  said  in  an  undertone: 

"  I  could  almost  hate  you  for  bringing 
her  here.  You  might  have  known  better." 

"  I  trust  you  will  have  patience  with  me, 
for  I  mean  to  go  a  little  further  in  my  ques 
tioning." 

"  Then  do  it  quick,  and  let  us  change  the 
subject." 

"  Listen.  What  guarantee  have  you 
against  meeting  one  of  these  fine  days  a 
woman  who  will  by  force  of  —  who  will, 
in  short,  set  to  naught  all  your  resolutions?  " 

"  I  am  love-proof,  my  lad,"  said  Marti- 
nelli,  a  smile  playing  on  his  lips  for  the  first 
time  that  evening. 

"  I  think,  I  understand,"  said  Belsky,  also 
smiling,  "  but  I  would  not  be  prying  into 
your  secrets.  Anyhow,  you  are  certain  that 
the  blind  little  trickster  will  never  come  near 
your  heart?  Are  you?" 


38  STORIES   OF    THE   STRUGGLE 

"  You  are  becoming  a  most  intolerable 
nuisance !  How  many  times  shall  I  tell  you 
that  such  a  thing  as  marriage,  or  love,  is  ut 
terly  out  of  the  question  in  my  case!  " 

"Keep  your  wool  on,  my  boy!  I  am 
glad  to  hear  you  say  so.  It  proves  to  me 
that  I  really  knocked  at  the  right  door." 

Belsky  took  a  puff  at  his  cigarette,  and 
then  said  in  measured  tones,  pronouncing 
with  studied  distinctness  each  and  every 
syllable : 

"  Now,  then,  since  you  are  so  very  cer 
tain  that  you  will  forever  remain  a  bachelor, 
do  me  a  favor  and  marry  my  sister." 

Martinelli  burst  out  laughing;  his  whole 
body  was  convulsed,  and  one  of  the  last 
three  buttons  on  his  waistcoat  jumped  off 
with  a  bound,  and  vanished  behind  a  volume 
of  history  on  the  opposite  shelf.  He  had 
not  laughed  like  that  for  years.  He  was 
almost  hysterical. 

When  Belsky  at  last  saw  his  friend  in  his 
normal  state  again,  he  turned  to  him  and 
said : 

"  Come,  come !  I  beg  of  you,  don't 
laugh.  The  matter  is  very  serious.  Be- 


MARTINELLI  S    MARRIAGE  39 

sides  you  misunderstand  me  entirely.  I  do 
not  wish  to  saddle  you  with  a  wife  — ." 

"  No  one  can,  my  dear  boy." 

"  Don't  interrupt  me.  I  am  not  such  a 
fool  —  Drunk  ?  No.  Not  that  either. 
All  I  want  you  to  do  is  to  marry  my  sister 
both  at  the  Italian  consul's,  and  in  church. 
Keep  quiet,  will  you?  We  can  procure  a 
special  licence  which  will  enable  you  to  be 
come  her  legal  husband  in  three  days.  At 
the  consul's  things  may  get  protracted  a  few 
days  more,  but  everything  could  be  settled 
inside  of  a  week.  Now,  don't  stare  at  me 
as  if  I  were  mad.  I  will  explain  it  to  you." 

Belsky  tried  to  take  another  whiff,  but  his 
cigarette  being  extinguished,  he  gave  it  up, 
and  proceeded  as  follows : 

"  Listen.  Eight  years  ago  Olga  left 
Russia  to  avoid  certain  deportation  to  Si 
beria.  She,  then  sixteen  years  old,  had 
committed  the  terrible  crime  of  allowing  a 
locally  well-known  Nihilist  to  use  her 
address  for  receiving  letters  by  mail  from 
St.  Petersburg.  She  came  to  Switzerland, 
studied  at  Berne,  while  you  were  at  Zurich, 
and  is  now  a  full-fledged  M.  D.  She  must 


4O  STORIES    OF    THE   STRUGGLE 

go  back  to  Russia  where  she  will  have  to 
pass  another  examination  and  settle  down 
somewhere  as  a  physician.  She  may  not  do 
that  either.  It  all  depends  — Give  us  a 
light,  will  you?  So.  Thanks.  It  all  de 
pends.  Anyhow,  go  she  must,  and  for  a 
reason  which  I  am  not  at  liberty  to  state, 
apart  from  her  old  offence,  she  cannot  go  to 
Russia  under  her  own  name,  and  will  only 
be  safe  as  Signora  Martinelli.  As  such  she 
can  in  case  of  need  appeal  to  the  Italian 
Ambassador.  In  short,  you  must  go 
through  the  ceremony  of  marriage  for  the 
sake  of  —  I  must  say  no  more.  Well  ? 

Martinelli  walked  silently  up  and  down 
the  room  a  few  times,  then  he  said : 

"  But  supposing  she  wishes  to  get  mar 
ried,  what  then?  " 

"  Why,  she  destroys  the  marriage  cer 
tificate,  and  becomes  Miss  Olga  Belsky  once 
more." 

"  And  further,  supposing  " —  Martinelli, 
went  on  half  grinning,  half  smiling—  "I 
come  and  assert  my  rights?  " 

"  You  will  never  know  where  she  is  as 


MARTINELLI  S    MARRIAGE  4! 

long  as  you  live.  You  won't  see  me  again, 
either." 

After  a  few  moments'  pause  the  Italian 
came  up  to  Belsky  and  said : 

"  I  think  I  will  do  it." 

And  he  did. 

About  a  week  elapsed  since  the  conver 
sation  above  recorded  had  taken  place. 
At  Liverpool  Street  Station  in  London  a 
small  group  of  people  had  assembled 
around  Olga  Belsky  and  her  brother.  The 
train  was  to  leave  for  Harwich  at  8  o'clock. 
It  was  about  half  past  7. 

"  Do  you  think  Martinelli  will  come  to 
say  good-bye  to  me  ?  "  said  Olga,  turning 
to  her  brother. 

The  young  man  shook  his  head,  and  she 
went  on : 

"  I  never  saw  such  a  bear  in  all  my  born 
days.  He  was  as  kind  to  me  as  possible. 
He  provided  me  with  every  comfort  dur 
ing  the  whole  week.  He  put  both  his 
rooms  at  my  disposal,  himself  sleeping  out. 
He  never  came  to  the  house  but  to  bring 


42  STORIES    OF    THE    STRUGGLE 

something  he  fancied  I  might  need.  And 
all  the  time  he  hardly  looked  at  me,  and 
only  once  wished  me  good-morning." 

Belsky  was  on  the  point  of  making  some 
remarks  when  Martinelli  appeared  on  the 
scene.  He,  however,  no  sooner  espied  Olga 
than  he  found  he  wanted  an  evening  paper. 
The  newstand  was  close  at  hand,  but  it 
took  him  quite  a  while  to  get  what  he 
needed,  and  when  he  at  last  came  back, 
Olga  was  already  on  the  train,  taking  leave 
of  her  friends,  and  shaking  hands  with  them 
through  the  open  window  of  the  compart 
ment. 

The  train  was  to  start  in  a  few  minutes 
and  the  guard  locked  the  door.  At  that 
moment  Martinelli.  looking  like  one  just 
aroused  from  his  sleep,  hurried  up  to  Olga, 
took  her  hand,  bowed,  and  before  she  could 
utter  a  word,  disappeared. 

Then  the  train  went  off,  and  the  little 
group  dispersed.  .  .  . 

I  met  him  again  some  four  or  five  years 
later,  in  the  fall  of  1886. 

The    man    had    undergone    a    complete 


MARTINELLl's    MARRIAGE  43 

transformation.  He  looked  ghastly  pale, 
the  lustre  had  gone  from  his  eyes,  his  tall 
figure  was  bent,  and  his  outward  appear 
ance  even  more  neglected  than  years  ago. 

It  was  at  his  house  that  I  saw  him.  We 
spent  a  few  hours  together,  had  a  long  con 
versation,  in  which  he  participated  only  to 
the  extent  of  saying  "  yes  "  or  "  no." 

I  was  on  the  point  of  going.  He  beck 
oned  me  to  a  chair,  sat  down  at  the  piano 
and  played  a  mournful  Russian  tune.  His 
rendering  was  so  peculiarly  touching,  that 
I  was  moved  to  tears. 

I  opened  the  door  to  go. 

"  Stay  a  minute !  "  said  he.  "  Do  you 
remember  that  little  meeting  at  Liverpool 
Street  Station,  when  —  she  left?" 

"  By  the  way,"  said  I,  "  did  you  ever 
hear  from  her?  " 

"No,"  said  he,  "and  —  just  fancy!  I 
have  loved  her  madly  ever  since."  And  he 
sobbed  like  a  child. 


HE,  SHE  AND  IT 
(1905) 


He  was  leaning  against  It. 

He  was  an  old  scavenger,  a  kind  of  super 
annuated  biped.  It  was  an  old  apple-tree. 

Who  was  She? 

Never  mind. 

The  dense,  murky,  smoky,  suffocating 
fog  that  had  darkened  the  sky,  and  poisoned 
the  air,  and  saddened  every  human  heart, 
was  gone  at  last. 

Good  riddance.  Men,  women,  and  chil 
dren,  now  breathed  a  little  more  freely  in 
modern  Babylon.  The  London  autumn  re 
sumed  its  ordinary  dismal  look.  Cabs,  car 
riages  and  omnibuses,  or  rather,  since  you 
insist  on  precision  of  nomenclature,  'ansoms, 
four-wheelers,  and  busses,  \vere  again  circu 
lating  in  all  directions  as  freely  and  unham- 
44 


HE,    SHE    AND    IT  45 

peredly  as  if  they  had  been  newspapers  lies. 
The  setting  sun  just  peeped  through  the 
clouds  once  or  twice,  preparatory  to  bid 
ding  the  world  good-bye,  and  retiring  for 
the  night. 

St.  John's  Wood,  a  part  of  London  with 
trees  and  actors  enough  to  justify  the  last 
and  to  belie  the  first  portion  of  its  name, 
was  now  quiet.  The  ragged  torch-bearers 
who  had  been  piloting  timid  pedestrians 
across  the  streets,  thereby  earning  a  'cap 
of  coppers  during  the  short  but,  for  them, 
beneficient  reign  of  King  Fog,  had  now 
disappeared  from  the  surface.  Neatly  and 
conventionally  dressed,  aproned  and  bon 
neted  young  "  slavies  "  were  walking,  jug 
in  hand,  toward  the  "  pubs  "  for  the  pur 
pose  of  obtaining  beer  in  one  or  the  other 
of  its  many  varieties,  eliciting  in  passing 
a  flattering  remark  or  so  from  some 
"  swell  "  on  his  way  to  his  club,  the  theatre, 
or  the  music-hall.  The  neighborhood  be 
ing  of  the  shabby-genteel  (less  genteel  than 
shabby)  persuasion,  had  settled  down  to 
feed  the  inner  man.  either  at  supper  or  at 
dinner,  according  to  its  "  station  in  life." 


46  STORIES    OF    THE    STRUGGLE 

On  the  whole,  then,  everybody  and  every 
thing  out  of  doors  was  now  at  rest. 

So,  too,  was  the  scavenger.  For  the 
first  time  since  the  lifting  of  the  fog  he  had 
just  once  more  swept  away  the  lifeless  yel 
low  leaves  which  the  wind  had  scattered 
all  around  him  on  the  sidewalk.  While 
the  darkness  lasts  a  man  literally  cannot 
see  his  duty;  no,  not  even  a  p'liceman,  let 
alone  a  mere  legalized  beggar  in  the  shape 
of  a  street-cleaner,  who,  unlike  the  other, 
gets  neither  regular  pay  nor  irregular  six 
pences  from  such  "  unfortunates  "  as  may 
be  fortunate  enough  to  possess  that  popular 
coin  of  the  realm. 

The  old  scavenger  was  now  resting, 
his  back  against  the  barren  apple-tree,  his 
emaciated,  not  very  cleanly  shaven,  and 
self-assertedly  projecting  chin  on  his  right 
fist,  while  the  left,  which  supported  its  fel 
low,  was  in  its  turn  leaning  on  the  old 
broomstick,  an  honest  time-worn  imple 
ment  of  the  road-sweeping  industry,  now  an 
integral  part  of  the  old  man's  being. 

Thus  propped  up  and  "  backed  "  by  the 
tree,  he  stood  there  gazing  at  the  stones  of 


HE_,    SHE    AND    IT  47 

the    pavement,    holding,    one    would    have 
thought,  communion  with  them. 

For  the  brief  space  of  one  moment  he 
dozed  off. 

ii 

His  whole  past  suddenly  arose  before  his 
mental  eye. 

By  Jingo,  this  is  queer.  Dashed  if  it 
ain't! 

Here  he  is  young  again,  young  and  vig 
orous,  and  as  good-looking  a  chap  as  any 
in  the  whole  timber-yard. 

Hark!  What  the  deuce  is  this?  What 
a  bloomin'  noise  ?  Music,  by  gosh ! 

"  Say,  gov'ner,  where  may  them  red- jack 
ets  be  going  to?  To  embark  for  the  Cri- 
mear,  eh?  Well,  I  am  damned!  " 

This?  Why,  Soho  Square,  of  course. 
Any  fool  knows  that.  Feels  nice  to  be  out 
of  that  infernal  timber-yard.  He  is  now 
on  his  way  home.  Washed,  and  kempt,  as 
bright  as  a  new  brass  button,  a  regular 
dandy.  But  what  makes  him  carry  a 
broom  across  his  shoulder?  Queer,  ain't 
it? 


48  STORIES    OF    THE   STRUGGLE 

And  now  he  is  in  Regent's  Park, 
among  lofty  trees  and  fragrant  flowers, 
beneath  a  clear  summer's  sky.  Foggy? 
Well,  it  was  foggy  a  while  ago,  but  it  seems 
to  be  July  again. 

There  is  Minnie,  emerging  from  behind 
a  cluster  of  foliage.  The  glass  roof? 
Oh,  yes,  it  is  that  funny  old  florist's  hot 
house.  Kindest  man  out;  never  passes 
you  by  without  giving  a  poor  man  a  copper. 
Thank'ee,  sir,  thanks! 

Minnie  has  come  to  meet  him.  He  knew 
she  would  come,  and  that  is  why  he  made 
himself  look  so  spruce.  Everybody  is  fond 
of  Minnie.  At  the  dressmaker's  where  she 
works  they  call  her  "  Queen  of  Hearts." 
They  say  the  yard  superintendent  cheats  at 
cards.  What  a  beast! 

"  Take  me  home,   Jack  ?  " 

Should  rather  think  so.  He  takes  her 
hand.  She  blushes.  Girls  will  blush  any 
how;  they  are  built  that  way. 

Suddenly  it  has  got  very  dark,  and  they 
are  in  Bethnal  Green.  What,  already? 
They  didn't  ride,  though;  he  is  quite  sure 


HE,    SHE   AND    IT  49 

of  that.  Here  they  are,  in  front  of  her 
house,  on  the  doorstep. 

"Jack!" 

"  Yes,  dear." 

"Good-bye!" 

She  fumbles  in  her  little  bag,  gets  out  her 
latch-key,  opens  the  street  door,  looks 
around  to  make  sure  .  .  .  and  kisses 
him,  sobbing  all  the  while. 

"Oh,  you  silly,  little  goose!" 

He  notices  some  egg-shells.  He  sweeps 
them  away;  that's  soon  done.  Somebody 
gives  him  a  penny.  Confound  the  man, 
now  Minnie  is  gone! 

Damn  that  policeman!  He  catches  you 
by  the  scruff  of  the  neck  and  drags  you 
along. 

"  Say,  old  fellow,  you  are  choking  me !  " 
He  digs  his  iron  knuckles  into  a  bloke's 
neck.  .  . 

That  jail  is  a  dreary  place,  and  no  mis 
take  about  it.  Serves  him  right,  though. 
If  she  got  into  trouble  through  such  a 
mean  skunk  as  that  lanky,  milk-and-water 
clerk  it  was  her  own  lookout.  Still  any- 


5O  STORIES    OF    THE   STRUGGLE 

body  would  have  knocked  down  a  miserable, 
blooming  wretch'  who  fooled  a.  girl  like 
Minnie,  and  then  threw  her  up  like  a 
squeezed-out  orange. 

Hang  the  little  rascals!  They  will  mess 
up  the  street  with  orange-peel  and  the  like! 
He  sweeps  it  away. 

"  Sorry,  but  you  can't  get  your  job 
again,"  says  Plank,  Timber,  and  Co.,  Lim 
ited.  Don't  want  no  jail-birds,  not  they. 

The  work  on  the  underground  railway  is 
downright  beastly.  Tunnelling  don't  agree 
with  him.  Makes  a  chap  drink,  too ;  lie 
does  not  booze,  not  exactly;  but  he  drinks 
more  than  what  is  good  for  him. 

My!  How  she  is  rigged  out  nowadays! 
And  she  grins  all  the  time;  every  customer 
gets  a  smile  with  his  gin-and-water. 
Fancy,  Minnie  a  barmaid ! 

Is  this  Le'ster  Square?  Where,  then, 
would  the  underground  be?  It's  all  bloom 
ing  well  mixed  up,  by  gosh!  It  must  be 
Le'ster  Square,  for  there  is  the  Alhambra, 
and  .  .  .  well.  Jack  may  be  a  trifle 
tipsy,  but,  dash  it  all,  he  can  see  all  right. 
There  is  Minnie  coming  out  of  the  Alham- 


HE,    SHE    AND    IT  51 

bra  on  the  arm  of  a  swell.  He's  got  a 
Scotch  plaid  over  his  shoulder.  They  got 
into  a  hansom.  .  .  .  Poor  Minnie! 
Her  eyebrows  are  so  very  black.  He  won 
ders  if  she  paints. 

"  Look,  alive,  my  friend ;  give  us  a  whis 
key,  will  ye?"  Here  in  New  York  they 
call  their  barmen  "  bar-tenders,"  and  every 
thing  is  upside  down.  Seems  an  age  since 
he  crossed  the  water.  Good  pay ;  but,  damn 
it  all,  they  work  the  guts  out  of  a  chap. 

"  Hextra-a-a !  Hextry  spesh-o-ol !" 
That's  the  Freenchies  and  the  Prooshians 
coming  to  blows.  Well,  it  is  none  of  his 
business. 

Minnie  is  a  ...  Confound  her! 
Still,  he  would  never  have  come  back  to 
England  but  for  her.  .  .  .  There, 
just  look,  there  is  a  well-dressed,  half- 
drunken  woman  walking  up  Piccadadilly, 
who.  .  .  .  He  could  almost  swear  it 
was  Minnie.  Drunk,  eh?  Well,  he's  a  bit 
shaky  himself. 

Days  seem  ages  in  Guy's  hospital.  The 
nurses  are  fine  girls  only  they  don't  sell 
liquor.  What  a  beast  to  run  his  infernal 


52  STORIES    OF    THE    STRUGGLE 

bike    into    a    bloke's     ribs !     Might    have 
worked  to  this  day.     .     .     . 

"  Eh,  stop,  will  yer?  Don't  ye  run  away 
with  my  broom,  don't!  ye,  blooming  idiot! 
My  broom,  my  broom,  help !  " 


He  opened  his  eyes. 

There  is  really  no  telling  how  much  a  fel 
low  can  dream  in  the  short  space  of  one  sec 
ond.  Talk  about  electricity,  it  isn't  in  it. 

The  old  scavenger  looked  down  at  the 
pavement  stones.  An  impudent  north 
easterly  wind  tried  to  put  the  tree  in  a 
flutter.  It  shook  derisively  its  branches, 
as  much  to  say :  "  try  again,  old  whirl- 
puff! " 

It  was  getting  very  dark.  An  actress 
came  up  the  road.  He  knew  her.  At  the 
corner  where  he  acted  the  last  chapter  of 
his  life  she  used  to  take  the  bus  on  her 
way  to  the  Adelphi,  invariably  putting  a 
penny  into  his  hand.  Actresses  always  are 
kind-hearted,  the  kindest  creatures  out. 


HE,    SHE    AND    IT  53 

III 

I  stop  and  look  at  him  as  he  stands 
there,  leaning  against  the  tree.  It  seems  to 
have  a  fellow-feeling  for  the  old  man. 
Just  now  they  are  both  in  the  same  plight. 

The  autumn  has  come  for  both  man  and 
tree.  Whatever  fruit  the  summer  of  their 
lives  had  ripened  has  gone  into  strangers' 
hands.  Now  they  are  both  barren  of  every 
thing;  both  looking  forward  to  a  long, 
cold,  all-devastating  winter,  with  the  only 
difference  that  while  the  tree  may  live  to 
see  another  spring,  the  scavenger's  winter 
will  have  no  springtide  to  follow  in  its 
wake. 

Presently  he  shudders  at  some  thought 
that  has  just  flashed  across  his  mind.  Was 
it  the  north-easterly  that  has,  perchance, 
tickled  the  terrible  wound  in  his  heart  — 
the  wound  which  time  has  been  unable  to 
heal? 

Nobody  knows.  The  street-lamp  has,  no 
doubt,  seen  a  great  deal  of  him.  His 
friend,  the  apple-tree,  may  know  a  thing  or 
two  about  him.  As  to  the  stones  beneath 
him,  he  was  certainly  whispering  to  them 


54  STORIES    OF    THE    STRUGGLE 

all  the  time.  But  then,  you  see,  a  tree  in 
the  fall  is  too  dead  to  tell  any  tales.  The 
lamp,  again,  is  like  some  learned  men  I 
knew;  it  lights  everybody's  path,  and  is  at 
the  same  time  a  very  poor  observer.  While 
the  stones,  low  and  down-trodden  as  they 
are,  have,  as  in  the  case  of  the  poor,  long 
had  their  senses  deadened. 

And  so  it  is  all  a  mystery. 

I  wonder  whether  he  is  dead  now  —  that 
is,  whether  he  is  done  dying  yet.  He  prob 
ably  is  by  this. time. 


COMMUNISM  A  FAILURE 
(1901) 

The  celebration  of  the  Paris  Commune 
held  under  the  auspices  of  the  Socialist 
League,  in  the  South  Place  Institute,  in 
London,  was  a  remarkable  success.  The 
crowded  hall  contained  a  gathering  almost 
picturesque  in  its  composition.  Among  the 
speakers  were  Eleanor  Marx  Aveling,  Peter 
Kropotkin,  \Yilliam  Morris,  and  Malta- 
tesa.  The  Hammersmith  Choir,  accom 
panied  on  the  piano  by  May  Morris,  the 
poet's  daughter,  supplied  the  songs  of  the 
evening. 

With  one  exception  the  speeches  were  lis 
tened  to  attentively,  at  times  almost  breath 
lessly.  The  exception  was  in  the  case  of 
Malatesta.  He  spoke,  of  course,  with  all 
the  fire  of  the  southern  branch  of  the  Latin 
race,  but  as'  he  did  so  in  his  native  tongue, 
and  very  few  people  in  the  audience  could 
55 


56  STORIES    OF    THE    STRUGGLE 

follow  an  Italian  speech,  it  naturally  fell  on 
deaf  ears.  Deaf  ears  beget  wagging 
tongues. 

It  was,  then,  during  the  delivery  of  that 
oration  that  in  a  corner  of  the  gallery  a 
colloquy  —  in  whispers,  to  be  sure  —  was 
carried  on  between  two  young  people  of  the 
fair  and  unfair  sex  respectively.  They 
hailed  both  of  them,  from  Russia,  the  coun 
try,  let  me  add  in  passing,  that  derived  its 
name  from  the  blackness  (implying  fertil 
ity)  of  its  soil,  and  might  now  be  so  named 
on  account  of  the  darkness  of  its  fate.  The 
man,  who  was  clearly  the  lady's  senior  by  a 
few  years,  could  not  have  been  more  than 
thirty.  He  was  tall  and  slender,  with  a 
beard  that  would  have  made  him  the  target 
of  jokes  among  a  normally  constituted 
crowd  of  down-town  office  boys,  and  he 
wore  a  suit  of  clothes  which  rendered  him 
anomalous  in  a  gathering  of  London  work- 
ingmen,  whose  knowledge  of  custom-tailor 
garments  was  purely  theoretical.  The 
lady  I  prefer  not  to  describe  as  she  might 
be  among  my  readers,  and  would  proba 
bly  rather  pass  incognita  through  this  story. 


COMMUNISM    A    FAILURE  57 

The  two  must  have  met  there  by  acci 
dent. 

"You  don't  understand  Italian?"  she 
asked  her  companion,  her  glance  fixed  on 
Malatesta. 

"  No,"  he  said,  and  smiled  as  he  added : 
"  Except  such  hackneyed  expressions  as 
'  sotto  voice,'  which  the  mode  of  our  present 
conversation  would  seem  to  suggest." 

A  short  pause  ensued,  then  the  lady  said: 

"  It's  quite  an  age  since  we  two  met  for 
the  last  time,  isn't  it?" 

"  Fully  nine  years  now,  I  think." 

"Yes,  she  said,  and  it  was,  as  you  doubt 
less  remember,  in  that  rickety  old  restaurant 
on  Rue  Glaciere  in  Paris.  By  the  way. 
There  was  precious  little  quiet  talk  in  those 
days,  as  far  as  I  can  remember.  Our  dis 
cussions  were  always  very  heated,  and  some 
times  reached  the  boiling  point —  " 

"  Particularly,"  he  interrupted  her,  "  that 
memorable  one  which  nearly  led  to  a  fight 
in  single  combat  between  Gradsky  and  my 
self.  All  about  Marx's  theory  of  surplus 
value,  too." 

''About  that   only?"   she   said,   at   once 


58  STORIES   OF   THE   STRUGGLE 

regretting  the  query,  and  still  more  the  tone 
of  voice  in  which  it  escaped  her. 

"Well,"  said  Valdimir,  "a  great  deal 
has,  no  doubt,  happened  since  then,  but  I 
I  may  as  well  tell  you,  now  that  we  can  dis 
cuss  the  matter  as  dispassionately  as  if  it 
were  the  third  Punic  war,  that  I  disliked 
Gradsky  then  in  a  general  way." 

"  Not  because  of  — " 

"Your  liking  for  him?  Perhaps  not.  I 
can't  tell." 

"  I  hope  not."  She  busied  herself  dand 
ling  her  eyeglass  cord,  and  supplemented 
that  remark  by  saying  epigrarnmatically : 
"  That  is,  however,  how  it  generally  hap 
pens,  for  when  hostilities  break  out  the 
'  casus  belli ' —  that  is  what  you  call  it,  isn't 
it  ?  —  is  always  found  to  be  some  exalted 
principle?  " 

"  You  are  severe,  So  — " 

"  Yes,  Sophy,  by  all  means.  My  hus 
band  does  not  hear  you,  and  would  not 
mind  it  if  he  did." 

"  You  have  fine  children,  I  am  told." 
He  was  anxious  to  change  the  subject, 


COMMUNISM    A    FAILURE  59 

which  was  evidently  becoming  painful  to 
him. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  said,  "  and  as  they  grow 
older  I  gradually  realize  more  and  more 
clearly  how  inefficient  moral  precepts  are 
in  comparison  with  surrounding  influences. 
All  my  plans  for  the  children's  education 
seem  to  go  to  pieces  one  by  one.  The 
school  will  probably  ruin  them  altogether. 
As  it  is  they  all  get  crushed  between  the  side 
walk  acquaintances  and  the  servant  girl." 

He  involuntarily  glanced  at  her  as  he 
muttered : 

"  So  you  keep  — 

"  A  servant  ?  Why,  of  course.  One 
cannot  help  it,  though  it  certainly  does  seem 
queer  when  the  past  is  recalled.  And  while 
I  am  at  it,  let  me  tell  you  a  peculiar  experi 
ence  of  mine.  When  I  first  married  — " 

Valdimir  slightly  coughed,  but  she  un- 
heedingly  went  on :  "  I  for  some  time 
could  not  reconcile  myself  to  the  idea  of  em 
ploying  any  - 

"  Help,  as  they  hypocritically  call  it  in 
the  States,"  he  chimed  in. 


60  STORIES    OF    THE   STRUGGLE 

"  Exactly,"  she  said,  "  but  then  Vladimir 
came  — " 

"  That  is  your  first  born,  I  suppose?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Was  it  your  husband  who  chose  the 
name?  " 

"  It  is  immaterial.  Anyway,  when  he 
was  born,  and  as  we  were  already  tolerably 
well  off,  my  husband  insisted  on  my  taking 
a  servant  into  the  house.  Well,  I  had  no 
less  than  three  girls  in  the  space  of  three 
months.  They  simply  would  not  stay  with 
me,  though  I  treated  them  as  well,  as  only  a 
woman  imbued  with  socialist  principles 
could  have  done.  When  I  went  to  the 
Register  office  for  the  fourth,  I  mentioned 
the  circumstance  to  the  woman  at  the  desk, 
and  what  do  you  think  did  she  tell  me  ?  " 

"  Give  it  up." 

"  Why,  that  I  would  never  keep  a  girl  in 
the  house  as  long  as  I  made  them  take  their 
meals  at  the  family  table,  instead  of  letting 
them  eat  by  themselves  in  the  kitchen.  The 
poor  creatures,  it  appears,  could  account  for 
my  *  strange  conduct '  in  no  other  way  than 


COMMUNISM    A    FAILURE  6 1 

that  I  was  trying-  to  see  that  they  did  not 
eat  too  much." 

"  No !  "  he  exclaimed. 

"  It  is  a  fact,  and  it  just  goes  to  show  — " 
She  was  on  the  point  of  launching  some 
elaborate  theory  in  relation  to  that  episode, 
when  an  outburst  of  cheering  in  the  hall, 
followed  by  another  more  vigorous  and 
more  prolonged,  put  a  stop  to  their  conver 
sation.  Malatesta  was  through,  and  the 
chairman,  in  a  stentorian  voice,  had  an 
nounced  "  our  comrade,  William  Morris/' 

When  the  meeting  was  over,  Vladimir 
consented  to  escort  her  home,  which  was  at 
Enfield,  in  the  north  of  London.  Taking  the 
train  at  the  Broad  Street  station,  they  got 
into  a  second  class  compartment,  which  they 
had  most  of  the  time  all  to  themselves. 

It  was  she  who  broke  the  silence. 

"So  you  have  decided  to  go  back  to 
America?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied ;  he  bent  his  head  a  lit 
tle  forward,  and  said  with  a  slight  tremor 
in  his  voice: 

"  And    since    I    may   not    have    another 


62  STORIES    OF    THE    STRUGGLE 

chance  to  speak  to  you,  permit  me  to  ask 
just  one  question." 

"  Do,"  she  said,  and,  somehow  or  other, 
the  matting  of  the  carriage  floor  suddenly 
developed  into  a  most  fascinating  sight  for 
her. 

"  At  one  time,"  the  young  man  said  with 
a  visible  effort,  "  I  was  under  the  impres 
sion  that  you  favored  my  advances.  That 
was  some  time  before  I  had  that  row  with 
Gradsky.  Now  was  it  pure  imagination  on 
my  part  ?  " 

She  made  no  answer,  and  gazed  still 
more  fixedly  at  the  floor.  A  minute  or  so 
elapsed  in  silence,  and  then  he  spoke  again : 

"  Was  it,  Sophy?  "  he  asked. 

"  No,"  she  replied. 

"  Then  what  was  it  that  brought  about 
your  sudden  change  of  manner  toward  me? 
So  soon,  too,  after  Gradsky's  last  visit  to 
you?" 

"  It  was,"  she  said,  with  a  badly  sup 
pressed  sigh,  "  that  I  invited  both  of  you, 
and  he  alone  came.  You  then  lived  to 
gether,  and  seemed  as  inseparable  as  the  — " 

"  Siamese  twins,"  he  helped  her  out,  as 


COMMUNISM    A    FAILURE  63 

she  got  somewhat  mixed  on  the  time-hon 
ored  simile. 

"  For  politeness  sake,"  she  went  on,  "  I 
invited  him,  too,  but  it  was  you  — " 

"  It  was  me  that  you  — " 

"  That  I  wished  to  see." 

Vladimir's  face  mirrored  all  the  colors  of 
the  rainbow  as  he  muttered : 

"  Well  that  is  extraordinary.  I  thought 
just  the  reverse,  judging  from  a  remark 
that  Gradsky  made  on  that  occasion." 

"  You  were  wrong,  Vladimir.  I  —  I 
longed  to  see  you.  I  did  not  think  there 
was  any  room  for  a  misunderstanding.  At 
the  supreme  moment  you  failed  me.  He 
came.  You  didn't.  The  rest  is  now  of  no 
consequence." 

Valdimir  seemed  to  turn  over  those 
events  in  his  mind. 

Suddenly,  as  if  seized  with  a  fit,  he  ut 
tered  a  short,  convulsive  laugh  which  con 
tained  at  once  a  comedy  and  a  tragedy.  She 
was  startled. 

"  How  strangely  you  behave,"  she  said, 
looking  up  to  him. 

"  Well,"    he    replied,    his    voice    ringing 


64  STORIES   OF   THE   STRUGGLE 

with  a  merry-tragic  tone  akin  to  that  laugh, 
"  you  say  you  invited  both  of  us.  I  told 
you  how  I  interpreted  that  '  both.'  Still  I 
should  have  come  along  with  him.  But  at 
that  time  we  \vere  very  poor,  so  poor,  in 
deed,  as  only  Russian  students  in  the  Latin 
quarter  of  Paris  ever  could  be.  There  was, 
no  doubt,  a  good  deal  in  that  poverty  of  a 
delightfully  idealistic  nature.  What 
ever  little  we  were  possessed  of  was  as 
clearly  common  property  as  if  we  had  been 
man  and  wife.  All  the  same  we  were  very 
hard  up,  and  so,  when  the  question  of  go 
ing  to  see  you  arose,  it  was  decided  that  he, 
the  one,  as  we  thought,  who  was  really 
wanted,  should  alone  go." 

"  I  fail  to  see  why  — "  said  she. 

"You  do,  Sophy?" 

He  glanced  at  her  rich  attire,  as  if  her 
opulence  might  afford  an  explanation  for 
her  want  of  understanding  in  matters  re 
lating  to  the  communism  of  the  poor,  and 
then,  with  another  sardonic  laugh  that  well 
nigh  choked  him,  he  muttered: 

"  Why,  in  those  days,  Sophy,  we  two  fel- 


COMMUNISM    A    FAILURE  65 

lows  had  only  one  pair  of  shoes  between 

us!" 

*     *     * 

Around  Whitsuntide  of  the  same  year  a 
marked  copy  of  a  San  Francisco  paper 
reached  her,  in  which  she  found  the  follow 
ing  lines  over  her  friend's  signature  : 

Deathless  love,  hope  ever  new  begetting, 

Heeding  neither  barriers,  space,  nor  time; 
Love  its  very  sighs  to  music  setting, 
Thriving  on  its  groans  and  fretting, 
Making  hell  and  heaven  rhyme, 
Is  sublime ! 


THE  GROWLING  EDITOR 
(1899) 

You  are  on  the  wrong  track  entirely,  my 
dear  reader.  The  hero  of  the  following 
short  sketch  is  not  as  you  imagine,  a  crusty, 
sulky,  disagreeable,  old  dyspeptic;  a  man  in 
perpetual  dread  of  budding  poets,  prosaic 
bill  collectors,  of  his  wife  and  her  temper, 
of  thin  skinned,  litigious  persons  whom  he, 
in  the  discharge  of  his  duty  towards  hu 
manity,  may  have  tackled  in  his  most  bril 
liant,  most  "  newsy,"  but,  alas !  not  widely 
circulated  paper;  a  man  whose  proclivities 
are  in  the  direction  of  money-making, 
while  his  achievements  invariably  result  in 
his  contracting  new  debts  and  chills,  with 
his  spine  and  his  creditors  ever  reminding 
him  of  the  old  ones. 

He  is  of  a  different  kind  altogether. 
Never  jump  at  conclusions. 


66 


THE   GROWLING   EDITOR  67 

At  about  7  o'clock  in  the  morning  one 
day  early  in  June,  1876,  a  young  couple  was 
seated  on  a  bench  in  the  public  gardens  ad 
joining  the  University  of  Koenigsberg,  in 
Prussia. 

The  man,  who,  seemed  to  be  on  the  right 
side  of  thirty,  had  a  careworn,  dreamy  look 
about  him,  the  bearing  of  one  who  has  had 
a  military  training,  and  a  pair  of  hands  that 
betrayed  the  workingman  long  out  of  a  job. 
To  look  at  him  you  would  have  taken  him 
for  one  convalescent  after  a  prolonged  ill 
ness,  just  discharged  from  the  hospital.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  just  out  of  prison, 
a  circumstance  which  accounted  for  the 
bundle,  tied  up  in  a  kind  of  shawl,  which 
his  fair  companion  had  taken  possession  of 
by  way  of  relieving  him  of  it. 

As  to  the  woman,  who  was  evidently 
some  five  or  six  years  younger  than  the  man 
and  more  refined  in  appearance,  she  would 
easily  have  been  recognized  by  anyone 
familiar  with  the  various  races  inhabiting 
the  German  empire  as  a  native  of  Posen, 
the  province  of  Prussia  where  Teutonic 
placidity  and  Polish  liveliness  are  so  beauti- 


68  STORIES    OF    THE    STRUGGLE 

fully  blended  in  the  fair  sex.  Her  de 
meanor  towards  her  friend  was  that  of  a 
mother  who  at  last  had  found  her  long-lost 
child. 

"  It  is  not  so  terrible  as  you  would  im 
agine,"  said  he,  continuing  the  conversation, 
which  was  probably  begun  at  the  prison 
gate;  "the  jail  could  not  have  any  terrors 
for  me  again." 

"  But  you  won't  do  it,  Hans,"  she  said 
gently  squeezing  his  hand,  "  I  will  just  take 
care  that  you  don't,  that's  all.  Write?  Of 
course  you  will;  but  you  will  have  to  be 
more  careful.  But  wasn't  it  a  grand  article, 
all  the  same!  I  often  wondered  how 
you—" 

"  Could  have  written  it,"  said  Hans, 
moving  uneasily  in  his  seat.  "  Well,  I  — 
but  let  us  drop  the  subject.  I  wish,  Flora, 
you  had  taken  a  keener  interest  in  the  move 
ment,  for  there  are  a  hundred  things  I 
should  like  to  know  all  about.  I  have  been 
as  much  cut  off  from  the  world  as  if  I  had 
been  in  my  grave  all  this  year." 

"  It  is  horrible !  And  you  will  not  do  it 
again,  you  silly  boy,  do  you  hear  ?  I  won't 


THE   GROWLING   EDITOR  69 

have  it.  But  you  make  a  little  mistake  in 
thinking-  that  I  know  nothing  about  the 
movement.  You  imagine  I  am  the  same 
little  goose  I  was  when  you  came  back  from 
the  French  war.  I  never  understood  you 
then,  and  that's  why  - 

"  Do  not  cry,  Flora/'  said  the  man  in  a 
somewhat  altered  voice ;  "  you  were  then 
quite  right.  And  when  you  know  all  — 
and  sooner  or  later  you  will  know  all," 
he  made  a  strong  effort  not  to  betray  his 
emotion  and  succeeded  in  adding,  "  you  will 
see  that  I  am  not  by  any  means  over 
modest." 

"  But  that  is  just  what  you  are,  you  big 
baby !  "  said  Flora  while  wiping  away  her 
tears.  "  You  don't  understand  your  own 
value.  The  article  was  not  only  dignified, 
bold,  defiant;  it  was  fine  writing  besides, 
and  everybody  admired  it.  I  read  it  every 
day  since  I  came  here  from  Dantzig,  and  I 
know  it  by  heart.  I  only  wish  it  had  not 
got  you  into  trouble.  That  article  proves 
you  to  be  a  writer,  and,  what  is  more,  it 
shows  the  wisdom  of  the  comrades  in  en 
trusting  the  paper  to  you." 


/O  STORIES   OF    THE   STRUGGLE 

Hans  looked  agreeably  surprised. 

"  You  said  '  the  comrades  ' —  you  are  k* 
the  movement,  then?  Since  when?" 

"  Well,  since  I  found  out  all  about  you. 
During  the  last  twelve  months  I  have  read 
a  good  deal  besides  your  article  —  but  what 
is  the  matter  with  you?  How  pale  you 
have  turned !  " 

Hans  moved  away  from  her  a  little,  and, 
after  a  short  pause,  during  which  he  had 
evidently  formed  a  resolution,  he  said : 

"  Flora,  you  make  a  great  mistake,  and 
I  will  not  suffer  myself  to  get  into  your 
good  graces  under  false  pretenses.  Let  go 
my  hand,  Flora ;  I  am  not  the  man  you  take 
me  for.  It  just  proves  that  you  have  not 
been  very  long  in  the  movement,  for  you 
would,  otherwise,  have  guessed  at  the  truth 
at  once." 

"The  truth?     What  truth?" 

"  Why,  that  I  was  nothing  but  a  growl 
ing  editor  all  the  time." 

Flora's  lips  moved  as  if  to  say  something, 
but  she  did  not  interrupt  him,  and  he  went 
on. 

"  You  have  clearly  never  heard  of  such  a 


THE    GROWLING    EDITOR  7! 

thing  as  a  growling  editor.  Let  me  explain 
it  to  you. 

"  Our  party  is  young  and  it  is  more  than 
any  Socialist  organization  in  the  world  a 
workingman's  party.  Writers  of  ability 
are  very  scarce  in  our  ranks,  and  not  a  week 
passes  by  but  what  some  editor  or  another 
is  committed  to  prison  —  sent  to  growl,  as 
the  phrase  goes.  Now,  if  every  one  who 
goes  to  jail  were  in  reality  the  editor  of  his 
paper,  we  wouldn't  have  at  this  moment 
more  than  half  a  dozen  papers  in  existence, 
and  so  — " 

He  cleared  his  throat  and,  somewhat  low 
ering  his  voice,  continued : 

"And  so  there  must  be  people  who,  not 
being  writers  themselves,  would  give  their 
names  as  responsible  editors,  so  that  in  case 
of  need  they  — " 

"  May  go  to  prison  for  other  people's 
offenses  against  the  law,"  said  Flora,  the 
words  almost  choking  her. 

"  Exactly,"  said  Hans.  "  And  so  you 
see,  my  dear  friend,  I  am  not  at  all  the 
great  writer  you  took  me  for.  I  am 
merely  — ' 


72  STORIES    OF    THE   STRUGGLE 

He  was  interrupted  by  her  suddenly  get 
ting  up  and  embracing  him  in  defiance  of 
the  broad  daylight  and  all  the  rules  of  con 
ventionality. 

She  then  sat  down  again  and  sobbed,  the 
tree  over  their  heads  wondering  what  it  all 
meant. 

For  a  while  they  were  both  silent.  Then 
Hans  felt  as  if  he  ought  to  say  something. 

"  You  now  see,  Flora  dear,  he  stammered, 
that  I  am  not  what  you  and  many  other 
fancied  I  was  —  I  am  merely  — " 

"A  hero!"  she  exclaimed. 


THE  KNOUT  AND  THE  FOG 

(1893) 

It  may  sound  incredible,  but  I  can  vouch 
for  the  fact  that  Nellie,  when  last  heard 
from,  had  developed  a  profound  admiration 
for  the  dense  London  fog, —  that  English 
survival  of  the  ninth  plague  of  Egypt. 
Now  don't  shake  your  head.  Read  on,  and 
be  convinced. 

Nellie  was  a  native  of  Russia.  She  was 
born  of  fairly  well-to-do  Jewish  parents  in 
the  old  historic  city  of  Smolensk,  where  you 
can  still  see  the  fortifications  erected  by 
Boris  Godunoff  in  the  sixteenth  century, 
and  where  the  French  in  1812  defeated  the 
Russians  under  Barclay  de  Tolly,  thus  clear 
ing  their  way  to  the  ancient  capital. 

Nellie,     blue-eyed,    blonde,     well-shaped, 

sweet-voiced,  was  the  favorite  child  in  the 

family,  and  as  such  got  a  good  education. 

She    was    sent    to    a    grammar-school—- 

73 


74  STORIES   OF    THE   STRUGGLE 

curiously  called  a  gymnasium  —  for  girls, 
from  which  she  was  graduated  after  a 
period  of  six  years  with  honors,  though  dis 
liked  by  masters  and  authorities  owing  to 
her  somewhat  "  rebellious "  spirit.  She 
had  a  will  of  her  own.  To  the  Russian 
official  mind  such  a  thing  savors  of  treason 
in  its  embryonic  stage.  Red  tape  sees  in 
it  the  germs  of  Red  Terror. 

At  that  time  Nellie  was  sixteen  years  old. 
As  higher  colleges  for  women  were  then 
still  in  existence  in  both  capitals,  she  took 
it  into  her  head  to  go  to  Moscow  and  there 
to  study  medicine.  Her  parents,  old-fash 
ioned,  though  not  exactly  orthodox  people, 
with  a  deep-rooted  aversion  for  all  new 
fangled  notions,  and  particularly  for  the 
"women's  independence  craze"-— so  greatly 
in  vogue  among  the  youngest  members  of 
the  fair  sex  in  Russia  —  would  probably 
have  objected  to  Nellie's  enterprise,  but 
they  were,  alas!  both  dead.  Her  uncle,  a 
brother  of  her  father's,  who  had  been  her 
guardian  for  some  years,  offered  no  resist 
ance,  and  so  she  left  the  "  old  place  "  for 
Mother  Moscow,  the  White-House  town 


THE    KNOUT    AND    THE    FOG  75 

with  its  forty  forties  of  churches,  its  Krem 
lin,  its  Czar-Bell,  and  what  was  of  more  im 
portance  than  the  rest  to  Nellie,  its  college 
for  girls.  There,  in  the  fall  of  1882,  she 
was  allowed  to  matriculate,  and  to  take  a 
course  of  medicine,  having"  bravely  sur 
mounted  no  end  of  difficulties  before  enter 
ing  college. 

For  a  while  all  went  well. 
*     *     * 

Following  upon  the  outrages  against  the 
Jews  from  below,  persecutions  from  above 
were  now  in  full  swing,  subjecting  the  old 
race  to  suffering  of  every  kind.  The  most 
exasperating  form  of  persecution  was  the 
rigid  enforcement  of  the  law  by  which  Jew 
ish  settlers  in  the  "  Interior "  of  the  em 
pire  were  driven  back  to  the  "  Pale  of  Set 
tlement,"  that  is,  to  the  North-Western  and 
a  few  other  provinces  which  they  had  in 
habited  long  before  Russia  annexed  them. 

The  authorities  now  discovered  that  Jew 
esses,  while  entitled  to  study,  had  no  right 
to  live  in  either  St.  Petersburg  or  Moscow, 
where  alone  such  studies  could  be  pursued. 
Consequently,  Nellie,  like  many  others  of 


76  STORIES    OF    THE    STRUGGLE 

the  objectionable  race,  was  told  to  go.  The 
poor  girl  was  thunderstruck.  There  was  to 
her  knowledge  but  one  way  out  of  the 
trouble;  to  embrace  Christianity.  She 
would  never  do  that.  "I  am  not  a  hypo 
crite  "  she  said. 

A  few  days  went  by. 

"  Whatever  shall  I  do  ?  "  she  exclaimed, 
while  talking  the  matter  over  with  a  friend 
of  hers  similarly  afflicted. 

"  The  same,  I  suppose,  as  Minnie  and 
myself,"  said  the  other  girl,  bitterly. 

"And  that  is?" 

"  That  is  to  take  out  yellow  passports." 

"  Yellow  passports !  What  do  you 
mean  ?  " 

"  What  I  mean  ?  Why,  you  poor  little 
goose,  I  mean  that  we  shall  get  ourselves 
registered  at  the  —  at  the  Police  Bureau  as 
—  as  prostitutes  —  -  They  don't  mind  Jew 
esses  of  that  class  here.  For  —  The 
poor  girl,  who  had  begun  her  little  speech 
defiantly,  expectorating,  as  it  were,  her 
words,  those  disgusting  words,  one  by  one, 
now  broke  down,  and  sobbed  violently.  Nel 
lie  bit  her  rosy  lips,  muttered  something  in- 


THE    KNOUT    AND    THE    FOG  7J 

articulate  and  getting  up.  went  away  with  a 
determined  step. 

In  a  few  days  she  was  duly  registered  a 
common  harlot,  free  to  live  under  the  holy 
sound  of  a  thousand  Christian  church  bells, 
pursuing  her  studies  as  heretofore  entirely 
unmolested.  But  she  was  no  longer  the 
same  person.  At  a  time  of  life  wlien 
woman  and  love  are  supposed  to  be  synony 
mous,  Nellie  learned  to  hate,  her  hatred 
growing  in  strength  and  intensity  as  one 
black  day  succeeded  another,  and  the  perse 
cutions  of  the  Jews  increased  in  volume,  in 
their  variety  and  cruelty.  However,  she 
stayed  at  college  some  six  or  seven  months 

longer. 

*     *     * 

In  the  spring  of  1883,  Nellie  found  her 
self  an  object  of  love.  It  was  a  young  man 
of  her  acquaintance  who  now  offered  her 
his  hand  and  heart.  She  hardly  recipro 
cated  the  sentiment  but  being  more  than 
ever  in  need  of  a  friend,  she  was  glad 
enough  to  receive  his  attentions.  It  is  not 
at  all  improbable,  either,  that  Nellie  would 
sooner  or  later  have  come  to  love  the  young 


/S  STORIES   OF    THE   STRUGGLE 

man  she  did  not  dislike,  but  her  first  ro 
mance  was  cruelly  nipped  in  the  hud.  The 
mail  carrier  had  one  morning-  brought  her  a 
letter  couched  in  the  following  terms:  — 

"  SMOLENSK,  May  19,  1883. 
"Dear  Niece, — 

Have  just  received  a  notice  of  expulsion.  In 
three  weeks  from  now  I  shall  leave  this  town  a 
ruined  man.  You  must  come  home.  You  are, 
of  course,  welcome  to  a  share  in  whatever  may 
be  left  to  us,  but  your  continuing  your  studies  is, 
under  the  circumstances,  out  of  the  question. 

YOURS,  ETC. 

"Come  home!"  she  exclaimed,  repeating1 
those  words  in  a  tone  of  voice  almost  terri 
ble  for  a  tender  girl  of  her  age.  Then,  the 
first  shock  over,  she  began  to  revolve  vari 
ous  plans  in  her  mind,  finally  deciding  upon 
one.  "  But,  said  she  to  herself,  he  must 
know  nothing  about  it.  He  might  take  it 
into  his  head  to  follow  me,  and  I  have  no 
right  to  drag  my  friends  into  the  whirlpool 
after  me." 

In  the  midsummer  of  that  year  the  popu 
lation  of  the  British  metropolis  was  in 
creased  by  one  poor  soul.  It  is  true,  the 


THE    KNOUT    AND    THE    FOG  79 

young  woman's  heart  was  broken,  but  the 
census  man  counts  folks  without  in  the  least 

bothering  about  integrity  of  hearts. 
*     *     * 

In  London  Nellie  spent  a  few  years  try 
ing  to  live.  She  only  managed  to  vegetate. 
With  all  her  knowledge  absolutely  inap 
plicable  to  anything,  and  her  inability  to 
eke  out  a  regular  living  of  any  kind  by  man 
ual  labor,  nothing  she  turned  to  seemed  to 
prosper  in  her  hands.  In  turns  she  worked 
hard  at  capmaking,  buttonhole  sewing,  at 
needlework  of  almost  every  other  descrip 
tion,  at  cigarette  rolling,  even  at  letter-writ 
ing  (for  illiterate  countrywomen)  ;  but  none 
of  these  occupations  yielded  her,  on  an 
average,  fully  six  shillings  a  week,  while 
gradually  destroying  her  once  robust  health. 

Nellie  was  soon  in  a  fearful  plight.  Too 
ill  to  work,  too  honest  to  steal,  too  proud  to 
beg,  even  too  proud  to  apply  for  tempo 
rary  assistance  in  the  shape  of  a  loan,  she 
had  starvation  staring  her  in  the  face. 
With  her  colorless  eyes,  her  emaciated 
cheeks,  her  faded  lips,  her  neglected  teeth, 
and  her  bending  knees,  she  looked  the  very 


8O  STORIES    OF    THE    STRUGGLE 

image  of  wretchedness  personified.  And 
the  clouds  kept  gathering  very  fast.  The 
arrears  of  her  rent  had  accumulated  to  a 
-non  phis  ultra  extent,  and  her  landlady,  her 
self  very  poor,  at  last  gave  her  notice  to 
quit.  She  was  not  unprepared  for  that,  and 
left  the  house  without  a  murmur. 

There  was  the  workhouse,  but  no  Rus 
sian  Jewess  ever  went  there.  What  else? 
Well,  the  streets  and  the  sky.  Alas!  The 
streets  in  November  are  inhospitable,  and 
the  sky  was  chilling  and  terribly  unfriendly. 

When,  after  a  day's  wandering,  the  night 
overtook  her,  Nellie  was  sitting  under  the 
portico  of  a  house'  in  one  of  the  least  fre 
quented  streets.  The  rest  was  a  great  re 
lief  to  her,  and  she  was  on  the  point  of  go 
ing  off  to  sleep  when  she  was  rudely  awak 
ened  by  a  watchful  guardian  of  the  public 
peace,  and  told  to  move  on.  Resigned  to 
her  fate  she  crawled  along.  A  well-dressed 
young  man  passed  by,  glanced  at  her,  and 
concluded  that  she  was  drunk.  Having 
given  vent  to  his  feelings  by  violently  spit 
ting  on  the  pavement,  he  quickened  his 
pace,  and  soon  disappeared  in  the  darkness. 


THE    KNOUT    AND    THE    FOG  8l 

After  this  Nellie  made  several  fruitless  at 
tempts  to  give  her  tired  limbs  a  rest,  and 
was  half-dead  when  the  merciless  night  was 
gone  at  last. 

\Yith  a  fewr  pennies,  obtained  at  the  cost 
of  the  last  articles  of  comfort,  she  managed 
to  keep  body  and  soul  together  during  the 
next  few  days;  but  rest  there  was  none  as 
the  cold,  angry  nights  relieved  each  retiring, 
gloomy  day.  Rest  came  at  last,  though. 

One  bleak  November  night  London  got 
enveloped  in  a  dense,  black,  suffocating  fog. 
No  policeman,  not  even  the  most  lynx-eyed, 
can  then  penetrate  into  the  doings  of  the 
poor  settled  on  doorsteps  in  the  streets. 
Nellie  slept,  having  closed  her  eyes  with  a 
fervent  blessing  addressed  to  the  kind,  mer 
ciful  fog.  The  same  happened  on  the  night 
following.  "  Oh,  that  blessed,  blessed 
fog!  "  she  said.  The  third  night  was  better 
still.  She  slept  so  soundly  that  when  the 
stifling  darkness  at  length  cleared  away,  the 
constable  "  on  duty  "  found  it  impossible  to 
rouse  her.  Nellie  was  dead. 

But  Russia  was  purged  of  one  moral 
monster,  of  one  Jewess,  at  all  events. 


MALEK'S  FRIEND 
(1900) 

That  night  —  February  17,  1880  —  the 
Communist  Workmen's  Educational  Club, 
at  No.  6  Rose  street,  Soho  Square,  in  Lon 
don,  presented  an  unusually  lively  appear 
ance.  The  bar-room,  never  of  an  evening 
entirely  deserted,  was  on  that  occasion 
crowded,  and,  strange  to  say,  not  so  much 
by  thirsty  as  by  inquisitive  souls,  who,  ever 
since  7  o'clock,  had  been  pouring  in,  either 
singly,  or  in  couples,  or  in  small  groups. 
Every  time  the  door  was  opened  the  barman, 
who  was  also  the  steward,  besides  serving  on 
a  number  of  committees,  had  the  same  ques 
tion  addressed  to  him :  "  Has  he  arrived  ?  " 
Whereupon  he  gave  the  stereotyped  answer : 
"  Yes,  He  is  in  the  dining-room,  right  there, 
on  your  left." 

Among  the  callers  were  many  persons 
who  had  never  seen  the  inside  of  the  old 
82 


MALEK'S  FRIEND  83 

club-house  before,  and  others  who,  for  a 
variety  of  reasons,  had  kept  aloof  from  it 
for  years.  There  were  also  among  them 
ladies  of  all  ages,  sizes,  races,  and  complex 
ions,  most  of  them  with  their  best  holiday 
looks  on,  and  some  with  babies  in  their  arms. 
Like  the  men,  they  were  directed  by  the  bar 
tender  aforesaid  to  the  room  where  "  he  " 
was  to  be  found,  and  whither  they  repaired 
with  all  the  haste  compatible  with  a  sense  of 
self-respect. 

The  particular  "  he  "  in  question  was  a 
middle-aged,  tall,  broad-shouldered,  severe 
looking  man,  who  had  come  on  a  sort  of  fly 
ing  visit  from  Germany  to  London.  As  a 
Socialist  member  of  the  Reichstag  —  at  that 
time  there  were  not  quite  a  dozen  of  them 
altogether  —  and  as  one  of  the  party's  most 
effective  speakers,  both  in  parliament  and 
on  the  platform,  he  always  loomed  large  in 
the  public  eye.  He,  moreover,  had  been  only 
recently,  and  for  a  number  of  months,  the 
recipient  of  the  Kaiser's  hospitality,  having 
had  board  and  lodging  free  of  charge  con 
ferred  upon  him  in  one  of  those  imperial 
hotels  where  they  take  as  much  care  of  you 


84  STORIES    OF    THE    STRUGGLE 

as  if  you  were  a  state  document.  This  cir 
cumstance  naturally  lent  an  additional  in 
terest  to  our  friend's  unexpected  visit. 

The  dining-room,  which  was  also  the 
reading-room,  as  the  many  newspapers  dec 
orating  the  walls  conclusively  proved,  was 
filled  to  its  utmost  capacity  when  the  present 
writer,  late  as  usual,  arrived  upon  the  scene. 
The  general  conversation,  in  the  course  of 
which  the  guest  had  all  sorts  of  questions 
pelted  at  him,  was  now  over,  and  his  at 
tention  entirely  monopolized  by  Malek. 
How  Malek,  who  was  among  the  least 
known,  and,  as  a  Socialist,  hardly  a  man  of 
any  account,  had  managed  to  get  at  the  lion 
of  the  evening  in  this  fashion  I  don't  know. 
I  am,  however,  inclined  to  think  that  he  ac 
complished  the  feat  in  the  same  way  as 
babies,  women  after  a  confinement,  and  in 
valids  succeed  in  having  things  all  their  own 
way  where  the  strongest  men  would  furl 
themselves  foiled.  Sometimes  weakness 
spells  strength. 

"  You  misunderstand  me."  I  heard  Ma 
lek  say  as  I  entered  the  room.  His  deep- 
sunk,  glistening  eyes,  which  brought  the 


MALEK'S  FRIEND  85 

ghastly  palor  of  his  emaciated  face  into  bold 
relief,  were  riveted  on  our  guest,  while  his 
voice  had  a  funereal  sound  about  it. 

"  The  question,"  he  went  on,  "  is  not 
whether  suicide  is  or  is  not  an  act  of  mad 
ness,  or,  as  you  put  it,  one  committed  in  a 
state  of  mental  aberration.  We  know  all 
about  the  so-called  instinct  of  self-preserva 
tion,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  But  that  doesn't 
bother  me.  What  I  want  to  know  is  sim 
ply  this :  Given  a  person  \vho  is  sane  enough 
to  foresee  that  his  death  would  very  seri 
ously  affect  the  health  and  happiness  of 
others  near  and  dear  to  him,  the  question  is : 
Has  he  a  right,  a  moral  right,  to  put  an  end 
to  his  life  when  that  same  life  becomes  a 
burden  and  a  source  of  torture  to  him? 
Now,  then,  what  is  your  opinion?  " 

"  Well,"  said  our  guest,  talking  half-re- 
luctantly,  "  that  would  to  some  extent  de 
pend  on  the  circumstances  connected  with 
the  particular  case.  Now  your  friend,  if  I 
understand  you  right,  is  — " 

"  Hold  on !  "  Malek  interrupted  him. 
"  Would  you  have  the  patience  to  listen  to 
his  story?  It  is  not  uninteresting,  and  I 


86  STORIES    OF    THE    STRUGGLE 

will  tell  it  as  briefly  and  succinctly  as  I 
can." 

"  Tell  it,  by  all  means,"  said  the  other, 
and  having  ordered  another  lager  and  a 
small  Manila  cigar,  combining  in  so  doing 
economy  with  good  quality,  he  composed 
himself  to  listen. 

"  My  friend,"  Malek  began,  raising  his 
voice  with  the  uncalled  for  self-assertion  of 
one  who  feels  that  he  is  given  a  hearing  out 
of  mere  politeness,  "  is,  like  myself,  of  Hun 
garian  extraction,  but  born  and  bred  in 
Germany.  When  a  mere  child  he  lost  his 
father,  and  was  brought  up  by  an  uncle  of 
his,  who  had  taken  him  off  the  poor  wid 
ow's  hands,  as  she  had  to  work  for  her 
living,  and  the  youngster  was  an  encum 
brance  to  her.  It  goes  without  saying  that 
the  parting  with  her  son  nearly  broke  her 
heart,  but  then,  you  know,  children  are  fre 
quently  a  luxury  which  the  women  of  our 
class  cannot  afford.  As  soon  as  the  boy 
was  old  enough  to  make  himself  useful,  his 
uncle  took  him  away  from  school  and  ap 
prenticed  him  to  his  trade.  He  was  a 
turner.  The  boy  progressed  rapidly,  and 


MALEK'S  FRIEND  87 

—  what  are  you  looking  for  ?  —  a  match  ? 

—  here    you    are  —  quite    welcome  —  and 
was  in  a  fair  way  to  begin  to  earn  nice  pock 
et     money.        Unfortunately,     his     health, 
never  very  rohust,  was  getting  poorer  every 
year.     When  he  reached  the  age  of  twenty- 
one  it  became  bad  enough  to  stand  him  in 
good    stead  —  it    freed   him    from    military 
service.     At  that  period  he,  partly  for  the 
sake  of  his  health,  partly  because  he  wished 
to  follow  the  example  of  others  among  the 
journeymen    workers    of   his    age,    set    his 
heart  on  '  wandering.'     He  dreamed  of  go 
ing   into    distant   lands,    often   quoting  the 
case  of  Bebel  in  that  connection,  as  he  was 
already  a  Socialist.     He  had  a  little  money. 
Neither  his  uncle  nor  his  mother  raised  any 
objections.     But  an  obstacle  arose  of  which 
he   was   not   conscious   until  the   very  day 
when  his  mind  was  definitely  made  up  to 
pack  up  his  few  belongings  and  to  start  out 
on  his  travels  — " 

Our  guest  interrupted  him.  As  a  public 
speaker  and,  at  that  moment,  the  observed 
of  all  observers,  he  could  hardly  help  it. 

"  I  smell  a  rat,"  said  he,  "  the  uncle  had 


88  STORIES    OF    THE    STRUGGLE 

a  daughter,  a  sweet  damsel,  blonde  and 
blue-eyed,  and  so  on  and  so  forth." 

"  Quite  so,"  said  Malek,  "  though  you 
are  wrong  as  to  the  young  lady's  complex 
ion,  and  the  color  of  her  eyes,  for,  if  I  am 
not  mistaken,  she  was  a  dark-eyed  brunette. 
The  two  had  grown  up  together,  and  would 
have  passed  for  brother  and  sister  if  they 
had  fought  each  other  often  enough  to 
make  the  mistake  more  readily  acceptable. 
On  rough  winter  days  the  boy  \vas  sent  to 
fetch  the  girl  from  school,  while  on  fair 
spring  and  early  summer  days  he  sometimes 
went  on  that  mission  of  his  own  accord. 
The  old  man  considered  the  care  bestowed 
upon  his  daughter  a  little  beyond  the  actual 
needs  in  the  case,  but  said  nothing. 

"  When  the  day  of  his  departure  set  in 
there  was  a  quiet  little  scene  in  a  quiet  little 
corner,  with  the  result  that  a  more  or  less 
plausible  excuse  was  invented  for  the  bene 
fit  of  the  uncle,  and  the  journey  was  indefi 
nitely  postponed  for  that  of  the  cousin. 

"  My  friend  was,  or  fancied  himself,  very 
happy  for  a  few  months.  Presently  a  dis 
turbance  arose  —  one,  too,  which  he  could 


MALEK'S  FRIEND  89 

never  have  foreseen.  Twice  within  three 
weeks,  as  you  all  know,  the  life  of  the  old 
emperor  had  been  attempted  upon,  two 
years  ago.  Hoedel's  attempt  did  not  affect 
my  friend.  So  deeply  was  he  at  that  time 
absorbed  in  his  little  love  affair  that  the 
whole  business  was  something  like  a  fleeting 
night-vision  to  him.  But  when,  on  the 
second  of  June,  1878,  Nobiling,  too,  shot 
at  the  Kaiser  and  seriously  \vounded  him, 
and  the  police,  having  proved  powerless  to 
guard  against  it,  tried  to  make  amends  for 
its  incompetency  by  arresting  everybody  in 
sight,  my  friend  got  into  trouble.  A  reck 
less  remark  or  so  landed  him  in  jail. 

"  He  was  not  long  in  '  preliminary  '  de 
tention.  His  trial  took  place  early  in  July, 
and  he  was  '  thundered '  down  for  nine 
months.  That  day  was  probably  the  hap 
piest  in  his  life,  little  as  he  may  have  realiz 
ed  it.  To  start  with,  he  behaved  nobly, 
eliciting  the  admiration  of  his  sweetheart, 
who  was  in  court,  her  eyes  full  of  tears,  and 
her  heart  full  of  love.  Then  he  seemed  to 
be  a  revelation  to  himself  as  he  made  his 
short,  defiant  speech  in  his  defense,  in  which 


9O  STORIES    OF    THE   STRUGGLE 

he  proudly  avowed  himself  a  Socialist,  and 
then  stated  that  while  he,  in  common  with 
the  rest  of  his  comrades  of  the  Social  De 
mocracy,  never  approved  of  assassination  in 
any  shape  or  form,  he  also  condemned  the 
system  of  society  which  was  based  on,  and 
sustained  by  murders  and  violence. 

"  As  the  sentence  was  being  passed  on 
him,  he  glanced  at  the  darling  of  his  heart, 
and  seemed  to  find  in  her  fine,  loving  eyes 
all  the  comfort  and  solace  that  he  needed  in 
anticipation  of  the  long  and  terrible  months 
to  come. 

"  Towards  the  middle  of  September  he 
had  a  surprise.  On  the  '  goose-walk  ' — " 

Our  guest  offered  an  explanation  for  the 
enlightenment  of  those  among  us  who  were 
not  acquainted  with  the  lingo  of  German 
prisons. 

"  The  *  goose-walk '  is  what  they  call 
there  the  convicts'  promenade  in  the  prison 
yard  which  some  of  them,  under  certain 
conditions,  are  allowed  at  stated  times. 
They  walk  two  abreast  round  and  round  the 
yard." 


MALEK  S   FRIEND  QI 

Malek  nodded  assent  in  a  very  nervous 
manner,  and  went  on  with  his  narrative. 

"  On  the  goose-walk,  then,"  said  he,  "  my 
friend  met  a  comrade  who  for  a  long  time 
had  been  a  close  neighbor  of  his  uncle's. 
As  nobody  had  as  yet  visited  him,  he  was 
naturally  anxious  to  know  all  about  the 
folks  at  home.  The  poor  fellow  received  a 
piece  of  information  which  fairly  stagger 
ed  him.  The  young  lady  — " 

"  It's  the  old,  old  story,"  the  guest  chimed 
in,  "  out  of  sight  out  of  mind,  and  the  fickle 
fair  proved  false  to  the  incarcerated  swain." 

Malek,  so  far  from  being  annoyed  by  the 
interruption,  evidently  welcomed  it  as  a 
kind  of  relief,  the  recollection  of  his 
friend's  most  trying  ordeal  in  life  having 
had  the  effect  of  rendering  the  narrative  a 
very  painful  performance.  He  wiped  the 
perspiration  off  his  forehead  and,  lowering 
his  voice,  he  proceeded  as  follows : 

"  The  thing  is  even  worse  than  what  you 
imagine,  but  I  don't  care  to  dwell  on  it. 
Suffice  it  to  say  that  the  man  who  supplant 
ed  my  friend  in  her  affections  was  already 


92  STORIES    OF    THE   STRUGGLE 

in  full  possession  of  her  heart  when  she 
faced  the  poor  fellow  in  court  on  the  day  of 
his  trial.  During  the  remaining  seven 
months  of  imprisonment  he  hardly  took  any 
nourishment,  and  slept  very  little  of  nights. 
The  result  was  that  he  left  the  jail  a  com 
plete  wreck  of  his  former  self,  and  he,  as 
you  already  know,  was  far  from  being  a 
giant  in  the  best  of  times.  Now  he  is  a 
physically  ruined  man,  sentenced  to  death 
by  the  weakness  of  his  lungs.  As  he  has 
no  work,  and  is  without  hope  of  ever  being 
able  to  do  any,  if  he  got  it,  he  longs  for  the 
final  drop  of  the  curtain.  But  there  is  the 
old  mother  — " 

At  this  point  a  terrible  noise  out  in  the 
street  put  a  stop  to  all  conversation. 

"  Explosion  in  the  Winter  Palace,  pa-pa- 
ar!  The  Tsar  and  family  nearly  killed, 
pa-pa-ar !  " 

This  was  yelled  from  several  lusty 
throats,  owned  by  newsboys  from  the  neigh 
borhood,  who  felt  pretty  certain  that  they 
were  bringing  their  wares  to  the  ri^ht 
market.  A  rush  from  the  room  ensued, 


MALEK'S  FRIEND  93 

and  in  a  minute  everybody  was  reading  the 
latest  from  the  country  where  the  "  red  ter 
ror  "  was  in  deadly  conflict  with  the  "  white 
terror." 

The  news,  though  brief  and  scanty,  gave 
rise  to  a  long  discussion,  in  consequence  of 
which  Malek  and  his  story  retreated  to  the 
background.  Meanwhile  the  hour  for  ad 
journing  all  talks  had  set  in,  and  our  guest 
had  got  into  his  outlandish  overcoat,  pre 
paratory  for  bidding  us  good  night. 

Malek  stopped  him  on  his  way  to  the 
door. 

"  Well,"  he  asked,  "  what  is  your  opin 
ion  ?" 

The  other,  his  mind  full  of  what  had  hap 
pened  at  St.  Petersburg,  stared  at  him  blank 
ly,  as  he  replied :  - 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  suppose  we  shall 
have  more  detailed  news  about  it  this  time 
to-morrow." 

"  But  I  am  not  talking  about  that.  I 
want  your  opinion  as  to  whether  or  not  my 
friend  has  a  moral  right  — 

"  Undoubtedly  —  only  keep  that  to  your- 


94  STORIES    OF    THE    STRUGGLE 

self  —  the  Tsar,  just  fancy,  the  Tsar  and 
the  whole  of  his  family.     Good  night." 
"  Good  night,"  Malek  said. 


Three  days  later  we  had  a  disappoint 
ment  at  the  club.  The  guest  was  to  ad 
dress  a  public  meeting,  and  did  not  appear 
until  after  most  of  the  people  had  left  the 
building.  It  was  nearly  midnight  when  he 
walked  in.  His  face  was  very  pale  and  he 
looked  more  dead  than  alive.  Nobody 
cared  to  question  him,  and  a  few  minutes 
elapsed  in  profound  silence.  At  last,  as  if 
waking  up  from  a  reverie,  he  spoke. 

"  Malek,"  he  said,  "  you  know  Malek, 
who  argued  with  me  —  the  other  night  — 
who  wanted  my  opinion  — " 

"Yes,  yes.  Well?"  We  took  him  up 
almost  in  chorus. 

"  Well,  his  friend  —  he  was  his  friend  — 
and  —  and  he  hanged  himself  this  after 
noon.  What  a  fool  I  was  — " 


CRANKY  OLD  IKE 

(1902) 

Of  course,  you  and  I,  whose  generous, 
loving  and  philanthropic  hearts  are  ever  on 
the  alert  for  all  that  is  best  in  human  nature, 
would,  at  the  sight  of  him,  have  heaved  a 
deep,  lackadaisical  sigh,  exclaiming  or  mut 
tering:  "  That  poor  old  man!  "  Not  so  the 
young  ragamuffins  of  East  Broadway  and  its 
tributaries.  To  them  the  gray-haired,  bent, 
dreaming  and  frequently  unkempt  cloak- 
maker  of  Cherry  Street  \vas  simply  cranky 
old  Ike,  who  was  so  "  orful  touchy  "  that  he 
flew  into  a  passion  every  time  a  playful 
"  kid  "  took  some  liberty  with  his  whiskers, 
or  burlesqued  his  mode  of  perambulation, 
or  called  him  a  Sheeny. 

For  a  long  time  his  shopmates  shared  the 
opinion  of  the  boys.  As  will  appear  here 
after,  their  reasons  were  not  exactly  the 
same.  Anyway,  he  was  never  thought  or 
95 


96  STORIES    OF    THE   STRUGGLE 

spoken  of  otherwise  than  as  cranky  old  Ike. 
He  was  fearfully  nettled  by  that  epithet. 
In  the  Yiddish  vernacular,  in  which  he  did 
all  his  thinking  —  even  when  he  had  come 
to  speak  what  he  in  the  innocence  of  his 
heart  called  English  —  the  word  crank 
meant  disease.  It  seemed  to  recall  to  his 
mind  one  terrible  winter  in  Russia,  when 
typhoid  fever,  aggravated  by  dire  distress, 
had  carried  off  first  his  youthful  wife,  and 
then,  one  by  one,  his  three  little  ones,  leav 
ing  him  a  branchless  tree  that  had  evidently 
nothing  more  to  do  than  to  stand  and  wait 
for  the  woodman's  axe  to  be  cut  off  alto 
gether. 

*     *     * 

Ike  came  to  this  country  in  1882,  during 
the  first  great  exodus  of  the  children  of 
Israel  from  the  modern  "  land  of  bondage," 
hardly  knowing  wherefore  or  whither  he 
went.  He  escaped  from  the  lions'  den  to 
enter  that  of  the  sweater,  just  vaguely  con 
scious  of  the  fact,  and  quietly  settled  down  to 
work  long  and  weary  hours  for  the  benefit 
of  a  *'  cockroach  boss "  and  the  Singer 
Sewing  Machine  Company. 


CRANKY    OLD    IKE  97 

In  the  workshop  he  was  unpopular  be 
cause  he  was  exclusive,  unsocial,  and  a  good 
deal  too  quiet.  His  redeeming'  feature  was 
his  submissiveness,  the  result  of  the  almost 
entire  absence  of  anything  like  a  will. 
Without  bothering  to  understand  the  ethics 
of  trade  unionism,  he  belonged  to  a  union 
when  everybody  else  did,  paid  dues  long 
after  the  others  had  ceased  to  do  so,  went 
out  on  a  strike  when  one  was  ordered,  paid 
every  assessment  without  grumbling, 
marched  in  all  processions,  did  his  full  share 
of  picket  duty,  and  was  generally  all  right 
for  a  man  of  his  age.  The  trouble  with 
him  was  that  he  clearly  had  no  heart  in  all 
this.  He  went  automatically,  like  a  clock, 
only  when  wound  up.  In  the  minds  of  his 
mates  there  was  the  suspicion  that  this  sub 
servient  tool  might  with  equal  ease  be  used 
by  anybody  else,  not  excepting  the  boss. 

And  then  he  bristled  up  against  every 
harmless  joke,  and  though  usually  taciturn 
enough  to  be  mistaken  for  a  deaf  mute,  he 
would  at  times,  like  a  sleeping  volcano, 
burst  out  in  a  rage  without  any  apparent 
reason  for  such  an  outburst.  This  was  the 


98  STORIES   OF   THE   STRUGGLE 

case  every  time  anybody  in  the  shop  per 
petrated  what  Ike  took  to  be  an  injustice  to 
a  fellow  workman,  or  when  some  gross 
though  innocent  lie  was  indulged  in.  Peo 
ple  naturally  felt  such  interference  to  be  a 
breach  of  good  Mammon's  first  command 
ment,  "  Mind  your  own  business,"  to-wit. 
Thus  it  came  about  that  the  verdict  of  the 
urchins  was  endorsed,  and  Ike  was  voted  a 

crank  by  acclamation. 

*     *     * 

Years  went  by  without  any  perceptible 
change  in  the  old  man's  ways,  habits,  or 
manners.  He  aged,  though.  Toward  the 
spring  of  1895  ms  na'r  nad  become  perfect 
ly  white,  his  eyesight  greatly  impaired,  and 
in  proportion  as  the  last  of  his  teeth  —  in 
valids  for  a  generation  —  had  taken  their 
departure,  the  wrinkles  on  his  face  increased 
and  multiplied.  Those  who,  for  lack  of  a 
more  profitable  occupation,  at  times  troub 
led  about  him,  gradually  came  to  the  con 
clusion  that  "  the  old  crank  was  fast  going 
to  the  dogs." 

Partly,  however,  they  were  mistaken. 

About  that  time  there  occurred  in  New 


CRANKY    OLD    IKE  99 

York  City  one  of  those  East-Side  strikes, 
which  return  annually  with  the  regularity  of 
pugilistic  encounters  in  certain  Parliaments. 
A  mass  meeting  was  held  in  Orchard 
Street,  and  among  the  speakers  was  one 
old  German  Socialist,  whose  calm,  sedate, 
and  sincere  manner  seemed  to  have  made  a 
strong  impression  on  poor  old  Ike.  Not 
that  it  was  the  first  speech  of  the  kind  he 
had  ever  listened  to.  Nor  can  it  honestly 
be  claimed  for  him  that  he  caught  the  true 
meaning  of  more  than  just  a  few  wrords  in 
each  sentence,  and,  heaven  knows,  a  Ger 
man  sentence  can  be  long  enough  to  test  the 
lungs  of  a  giant.  But  he  was  stirred  tip  by 
it  all  the  same,  and  was  a  different  man  to 
the  end  of  the  final  chapter  of  his  life. 
There  is,  let  me  add,  reason  to  suppose  that 
what  impressed  him  more  particularly  was 
the  part  in  the  eloquent  harangue  in  which 
the  speaker  showed  that  the  unsanitary  con 
ditions  prevailing  in  the  dwellings  of  the 
poor  render  them  a  sure  prey  to  every  con 
tagious  disease. 

However  that  may  have  been,  the  fact  re 
mains  that  old  Ike  no  longer  resembled  him- 


IOO  STORIES    OF    THE    STRUGGLE 

self.  He  not  only  became  talkative,  but  he 
talked  politics,  and  a  good  deal  of  it. 

At  first  nobody  took  him  seriously. 
Cranky  Ike  in  the  character  of  a  political 
reformer  struck  people  as  no  less  a  mons 
trosity  than  might  have  been  a  Jewish  rabbi 
performing  on  the  high  trapeze  in  a  circus. 
Men  scorned  the  very  idea,  and  the  recog 
nized  wit  in  the  shop  raised  many  a  laugh 
at  the  old  man's  expense,  the  most  popular 
among  the  many  witicisms  being  to  the  ef 
fect  that  Ike  had  swallowed  an  alderman. 
But  as  time  wore  on.  and  the  old  man's  in 
terest  in  politics,  so  far  from  flagging,  had 
actually  got  more  intensified  and  more  keen 
as  election  day  drew  near,  the  jeers  and 
gibes  gave  place  to  a  kind  of  silent  amaze 
ment. 

One  day  in  October,  1895,  ^<e  was  S1't" 
ting  at  his  work  when  suddenly  a  thought 
flashed  across  his  mind,  and,  nudging  his 
nearest  neighbor  with  the  elbow,  he  blurted 
out : 

"  Say,  how  many  of  them  is  there  in  the 
Twelfth?" 

"  Don't  understand  you." 


CRANKY    OLD    IKE  1OI 

"  I  mean,  how  many  voters  is  there  in 
all?" 

"Where?" 

"  In  the  Twelfth  Assembly." 

"  You  mean  in  the  Twelfth  Assembly 
District?" 

"  Sure." 

"  Ask  me  something  easier." 

"  Ask  a  policeman,"  chimed  in  the  funny 
man  of  the  place,  doing  it  rather  timidly. 

And  the  old  man  collapsed. 

That  evening  a  meeting  was  held  on  East 
Broadway,  and,  as  the  speakers  succeeded 
each  other,  poor  Ike's  heart  expanded,  his 
face  beamed  with  delight,  and  his  eyes 
sparkled  as  if  they  had  been  newly  "  fixed." 

When  pay-day  came  round,  and  he  got 
his  few  hard-earned  dollars,  he  felt  so 
young  that  he  thought  he  ought  to  invest  a 
little  money  in  new  collars.  He  accordingly 
repaired  to  Gcand  Street,  examined  half- 
a-dozen  show-cases  and  store-windows,  and 
came  home  with  a  fine  double-portrait  of 
Marx  and  Engels,  having  decided  to  buy 
the  collars  the  following  Saturday  without 
fail. 


IO2          STORIES    OF   THE   STRUGGLE 

As  the  month  of  October  set  in  the  cam 
paign  was  in  full  swing.  Ike  devoured 
every  leaflet  and  news-item  bearing  on 
Socialism  in  general,  and  the  contest  in  the 
Twelfth  in  particular.  The  prospects  look 
ed  to  him  brighter  and  more  encouraging 
from  day  to  day,  and  as  he  lay  down  of 
nights  he  dreamed  of  Albany,  of  the  As 
sembly,  of  the  first  Socialist  State  legisla 
tor.  He  saw  him  enter  the  House,  proud 
and  defiant,  a  veritable  Samson  among  the 
Philistines,  challenging  to  battle  all  and 
sundry,  and  carrying  aloft  the  purple  banner 
of  justice,  and  freedom,  and  —  well,  yes  — 
and  sanitary  conditions. 

He  did  not  sleep  well  at  all,  poor  old  man, 
and  his  health  suffered  visibly.  But  he  did 
not  mind  it.  "  I  never  felt  better  in  my 
life,"  he  would  say  when  anybody  upbraid 
ed  him  for  staying  up  late  at  night  after 
spending  the  evening,  wet  or  dry,  running 
from  one  street  corner  to  another  to  "  hear 
the  speeches." 

And  now  the  great  parade  came.  He 
was  in  it.  Rather.  His  step  was  almost 
elastic  as  he  walked  in  the  never-ending 


CRANKY   OLD    IKE  103 

procession  to  Union  Square.  The  thou 
sands  of  marchers,  the  flying  colors,  the 
bands  of  music,  and  afterwards  the  fiery 
speeches  seemed  to  give  him  a  new  lease  of 
life.  When  the  parade  was  over,  Ike  felt 
certain  that  "  our  man  "  was  going  to  win 
in  a  canter,  which  meant  that  the  thin  end 
of  the  wedge  was  driven  in,  and  the  dawn 
of  the  new  era  was  near.  Why,  his  chil 
dren  might  have  lived  to  see  it.  .  .  . 
Poor  little  things! 

At  length  election  day  came.  It  was  an 
interminably  long  day.  It  could  not  have 
been  longer  if  another  Joshua  had  once 
more  stopped  the  sun  in  Gibeon.  And  then 
he  had  got  up  several  hours  before  the 
usual  time.  In  fact,  he  hardly  slept  at  all 
the  previous  night.  Who  could  sleep? 

At  noon  he  went  into  a  coffee-saloon  on 
Division  Street.  People  talked  at  the 
tables.  He  listened.  When  the  waiter  came 
around  for  his  order,  Ike  looked  at  him 
vaguely,  then  waking  up  to  the  fact  that  he 
was  to  eat  there,  he  pondered  over  the  mat 
ter  for  a  moment,  and  then,  to  save  time, 
ordered  a  "  regular  dinner."  The  soup 


IO4  STORIES    OF    THF  STRUGGLE 

came  and  went  back  almost  untouched  .nd 
the  meat  was  set  before  him.  He  had  ,ard- 
ly  swallowed  the  first  morsel  whei?  ,ne  talk 
at  the  neighboring  table  turned  on  the  elec 
tion. 

"  He  ain't  got  no  show,"  said  a  well- 
dressed  young  man  who  looked  the  very 
type  of  the  fellow  with  his  mind  made  up  to 
be  rich.  Ike  had  a  presentiment,  and  the 
fork  dropped  out  of  his  hand. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  the  young 
man's  colloquitor. 

"  Vy,  that  Sosh'list  feller  in  the  Twelfth, 
of  course." 

Ike  turned  deadly  pale.  He  went  up  to 
the  first  speaker,  and,  in  a  trembling  voice, 
ejaculated : 

"You  are  a  liar!     That's  all." 

The  young  man  got  excited,  and  trouble 
would  have  ensued  had  not  the  saloon 
keeper  stepped  up  to  the  future  Rockefeller 
and  whispered  in  his  ear : 

"  Dontcher  mind  him,  man.  It's  cranky 
old  Ike.  dontcher  know?  " 

Hostilities  stopped  right  then,  but  Ike  ate 
no  more.  He  left  the  place  very  much 


CRANKY    OLD    IKE  IO5 

troubled  in  his  mind.  A  terrible  doubt  was 
now  gnawing  at  his  heart.  Could  that 
"  clucle  "  be  right  ?  He  went  out  into  the 
street,  and  bought  the  Jewish  Socialist 
daily.  The  editorial  was  far  from  reassur 
ing.  There  was  some  talk  there  of  succeed 
ing  in  the  end.  That  wasn't  what  Ike  had 
come  to  expect.  A  cold  shiver  ran  along 
his  back. 

Still,  he  hoped  against  hope.  "  The  pa 
pers,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  don't  know 
everything.  They  make  mistakes  all  the 
time.  And  then  it  is  quite  possible  that  the 
writer  purposely  talked  in  that  strain  so  as 
to  make  the  victory  all  the  more  striking 
when  it  comes ;  yes,  when  it  comes.  .  .  ." 

At  ten  o'clock  it  was  all  over.  The  result 
was  known.  Ike's  man  was  at  the  bottom 
of  the  poll. 

The  following  morning  the  old  man  did 
not  show  up  at  the  work-shop.  The  day 
after  he  came,  but  could  not  work.  Then 
he  disappeared  altogether. 


THE  PRICE  OF  FREEDOM 
(1902) 

After  Balmashoff  —  Hirsch  Leckert! 

One  after  another  they  come  and  sacri 
fice  their  young  lives  on  the  altar  of  Russian 
freedom. 

"  Well,  my  friends,"  said  some  one,  as 
we  talked  matters  over  a  few  days  ago,  "  it 
is  the  blood  of  the  tyrant's  countless  victims 
that  cries  to  Heaven  for  vengeance.  The 
cry  being  heard  on  earth,  is  responded  to  by 
the  noblest  sons,  or,  as  in  the  case  of  the 
Jew  Leckert,  by  the  noblest  step-sons,  of 
darkest  Russia." 

"  This,"  said  I,  "  sounds,  of  course,  plaus 
ible  enough,  but  there  is,  to  my  mind,  some 
thing  else  underlying  the  eagerness  to  do 
and  die  on  the  part  of  those  young  heroes. 
There  is  an  old  legend  not  very  extensive 
ly  known  even  in  Russia,  which  would  ex 
plain  my  meaning  better  than  any  words  I 
1 06 


THE    PRICE    OF    FREEDOM  IO7 

could  use  for  the  purpose.  I  have  it,  done 
into  English,  and  would  read  it  aloud  to 
you,  if  you  care  to  hear  it." 

They  composed  themselves  to  listen,  and, 
producing1  the  manuscript,  I  read  what  fol 
lows  : 


Thrice-nine  lands  away,  in  the  thrice- 
tenth  kingdom  yonder,  there  lived  and 
thrived  a  mighty  Czar  in  the  olden  days  of 
yore. 

A  powerful  monarch  was  he,  stout  of 
heart  and  strong  of  limb;  wise,  though 
youthful,  and  withal  right  terrible  when  in 
wrath. 

And  he  took  to  wife  a  damsel  fair,  a 
beautiful  princess,  lovely  to  behold.  Her 
gracefulness  was  the  envy  of  the  fairies, 
while  the  lustre  of  her  eyes  put  to  the  blush 
the  light  of  the  polar  star. 

Full  many  a  time  the  sun  rose  and  set, 
ami  many  a  stream  ran  down  its  course  as 
the  royal  pair  delighted  in  bliss  beyond  the 
ken  of  mortal  man. 

And  now  in  fulness  of  time  their  union 
was  blessed  with  godlike  off-spring,  for  a 


IO8  STORIES    OF    THE    STRUGGLE 

male-child  was  born  unto  them,  whose  coun 
tenance  mirrored  wisdom  and  power  ap 
parently  destined  to  be  the  wonder  of  the 
world. 

Great  was  the  joy  of  the  Czar  as  the 
feast  was  spread  in  the  royal  hall.  Right 
glad  was  he  as  each  Barin  and  Boyarin, 
after  partaking  of  the  choicest  viands  and 
the  most  delicious  wines,  came  up  to  pay 
homage  to  him  who  was  to  be  the  ruler  of 
the  land  in  days  to  come. 

But,  alas!  the  Czar's  happiness  was 
soon  cruelly  nipped  in  the  bud.  'Mid  the 
strains  of  enchanting  music  that  had  roused 
the  spirits  of  the  elder  folks,  while  setting 
a-whirling  in  joyous  dances  the  giddy  lads 
with  the  buxom  maidens  of  the  hall,  a  ser 
pent  in  human  guise  whispered  something 
so  dreadful  in  the  monarch's  ear  that  it 
forthwith  set  ablaze  his  heart,  and  the  erst 
while  happy  husband  and  father  now  resem 
bled  a  furious  demon.  Thus  will,  at  times, 
peaceful,  playful  Mother  Volga,  enraged  by 
a  mischievous  storm,  all  of  a  sudden  rise  in 
anger,  fiercely  smiting  her  shores  to  right 
and  left,  on  ruin  and  devastation  bent. 


THE    PRICE   OF    FREEDOM  IOO, 

"  Thrice-cursed  woman !  "  thundered  the 
Czar.  "  Yonder  child  is  not  the  issue  of 
my  loins!  " 

Anon  the  guests,  as  if  terror-struck  by  a 
raging  volcano,  quietly  dispersed,  and  the 
palace,  but  now  full  of  life  and  mirth,  be 
came  desolate,  dreary,  and  dead. 

Many  a  night  after  this  the  Czar  lay  out 
stretched  on  his  couch  which  unto  him  now 
seemed  a  bed  of  thorns,  brooding  over  his 
fate;  while  the  Czarina  bathed  her  face  in 
tears,  pacing  up  and  down  in  her  bower,  as 
might  a  caged  lioness,  doomed  to  an  inglo 
rious  end. 

The  Czar  at  first  was  hesitating  only  be 
cause  he  could  not  devise  a  death  that  would 
be  an  adequate  punishment  for  the  trans 
gression  of  his  royal  consort.  Then,  as  his 
fury  abated,  better  counsel  prevailed.  The 
more  so,  as  his  former  great  love  for  her, 
who  but  a  little  while  ago  had  been  his  all 
in  all,  had  begun  to  plead  in  her  favor,  rais 
ing  doubts  as  to  her  very  guilt. 

In  the  end,  however,  he  decided  to  place 
her  fate  and  that  of  her  infant  child  in  the 


IIO  STORIES    OF    THE    STRUGGLE 

hands  of  Providence,  so  that,  if  so  it  be  that 
she,  as  she  all  along  protested,  really  were 
innocent  of  the  crime  laid  at  her  door,  then, 
forsooth,  her  giiardian-angel  would  protect 
her  and  save  her  from  harm. 

He  thereupon,  got  her  and  the  luckless  in 
fant  put  in  a  tub  strongly  built  and  well 
tarred  on  the  outside,  and,  having  furnished 
them  with  meat  and  drink,  to  the  end  that 
they  perish  not  of  hunger  and  thirst,  he  had 

them  set  afloat  on  the  wide,  wide  sea. 
*     *     * 

Soon  a  tale  is  told,  but  not  so  soon  a 
deed  is  done. 

Moon  after  moon  passed  as  it  was  born 
as  the  Czarina  and  the  outcast  scion  of  a 
mighty  family  remained  thus  confined  with 
in  their  floating  jail,  at  the  mercy  of  the 
furious  winds  and  angry  waves, 

Meanwhile  the  prince  grew  not  from  day 
to  day,  but  from  hour  to  hour.  He  soon 
was  a  veritable  young  giant  with  the  strength 
of  a  lion,  and  the  sight  of  an  eagle.  So  big 
was  he  now  that  he  could  no  longer  freely 
stretch  his  limbs  within  the  narrow  vessel. 


THE    TRICE    OF    FREEDOM  III 

Anon,  my  good  sirs,  a  terrible  thing  came 
to  pass. 

"  I  must  have  more  elbow  room,  I  must 
have  freedom!  "  the  son  one  day  said  unto 
his  mother,  and  so  saying,  he  made  a  her 
culean  effort  to  burst  asunder  the  vessel. 

"For  God's  sake,  stop!"  cried  his  terri 
fied  parent. 

"  Mother,  I  must,"  quoth  he,  "  I  will,  and 
must  be  free !  " 

"  But,  oh,  foolish  child,  thou  canst  have 
no  liberty,  leastways  not  unless  thou  payest 
for  it  with  thine  own  sweet  life,"  said  the 
luckless  woman,  rising  as  if  to  stand  up 
betwixt  her  child  and  his  death. 

"  I  will  have  my  freedom,  mother  dear, 
whatever  the  cost !  I  will  have  a  taste  of  it 
now  that  I  am  big,  come  what  may !  " 

"  But,  my  darling,  thou  wilt  surely  per 
ish,  thou  wilt  die,  my  soul !  "  pleaded  the 
poor  woman,  mother-like  entirely  oblivious 
of  her  own  danger. 

"  Sweet  queen,"  said  the  lad,  "  one  short 
moment's  freedom  is  worth  more  than  a 
whole  long  lifetime  in  bondage  and  dis- 


112  STORIES    OF    THE   STRUGGLE 

grace.  I  must  have  air,  and  light,  and  lib 
erty,  untrammelled,  limitless!  I  will  free 
myself,  and  die !  " 

He  freed  himself  and  died. 


THE   MAN    LAZY   ON    PRINCIPLE 

(i893) 

Mike  —  his  patronymic  nobody  ever 
knew  —  was  not  exactly  a  compositor  by 
trade.  He  was  a  man  who  occasionally  did 
an  odd  job  in  the  lower-class  East  End 
printing  places  in  London,  but  only  when 
there  was  absolutely  nothing  more  to  pawn, 
and  nobody  to  borrow  from,  "  probably 
never  to  repay,"  as  he  used  to  say  with  char 
acteristic  frankness.  He  wras  rather  under- 
grown,  slender,  sleepy-looking,  with  a  sal 
low  complexion  and  deep-sunken  eyes. 
His  temper  was  very  uneven,  and  he  was 
known  to  be  both  "  mild  and  bitter,"  Soc 
rates  and  Xantippe  in  the  space  of  five  min 
utes.  As  a  general  rule,  however,  he  was 
the  most  good-natured  young  fellow  in 
the  Tower  Hamlets.*  Young,  did  I  say? 
Well,  I  am  afraid  it  was  a  somewhat 

*  A  part  of  London :  the  east  side. 


114  STORIES    OF    THE    STRUGGLE 

hazardous  assertion,  for  you  can  never  tell 
the  age  of  the  poor.  They  often  have  a 
careworn  look  as  soon  as  they  are  breeched, 
and,  on  the  other  hand,  frequently  preserve 
a  healthy  color  in  the  face  and  a  bushy  head 
of  hair  long  after  their  contemporaries  of 
the  middle-meddle-muddle  class  have  lost 
their  ruddy  cheeks  and  become  as  bald  as 
eggs. 

He  was  very  talented  —  was  Mike.  He 
not  only  could  give  the  average  compositor 
odds  at  typesetting  and  beat  him,  but  was  a 
good  hand  at  almost  anything  you  cared  to 
mention.  He  had  the  making  of  a  com 
fortably-situated  artisan  in  him,  only  he  had 
a  deep-rooted  aversion  for  all  work  and  pre 
ferred  constant  need,  with  occasional  em 
ployment,  which  was  his  lot,  to  constant 
employment,  with  occasional  need,  which  is 
the  lot  of  other  exceptionally  skilled  work- 

ingmen.     He  was  well  read,  too. 
#     *     * 

"  I  am,"  he  once  told  me,  in  the  course  of 
a  long  debate  I  had  with  him,  "  an  idler  on 
principle,  and  a  worker  through  compulsion. 
I  hate  the  drudgery  of  the  workshop.  Even 


THE    MAN    LAZY    ON    PRINCIPLE        115 

if  work  were  not,  as  it  generally  is,  over 
strained  and  underpaid,  I  would  still  detest 
it." 

"  But,  then,"  I  remarked,  "  you  are  poor." 

"  Well,"  he  replied,  "  it  depends  on  what 
you  call  poor.  He  who  earns  four  shilling's 
a  week  and  needs  five  is  not  half  so  pinched 
as  his  neighbor  who,  with  a  weekly  income 
cf  four  pounds,  lives  at  the  rate  of  ten.  Be 
sides,  man  alive,  what  is  a  breakfast  or  two 
gone  without,  or  a  dinner  eaten  by  proxy 
once  or  twice  in  the  course  of  a  week,  com 
pared  with  a  spin  of  idleness  lasting  through 
a  whole  delightful  month?  Why,  a  mere 
nothing." 

"Dolce  far  niente!"  I  interposed,  prob 
ably  murdering  the  Italian  words  in  my 
pronunciation,  and  accompanying  the 
slaughter  with  a  smile  like  a  genuine  civ- 
ilizer  of  Asiatics. 

"  Just  fancy,"  he  continued,  visibly  an 
noyed  by  the  interruption,  "  going  to  bed 
with  the  consciousness  of  having  spent  a 
day  in  gaping  and  gazing  while  strolling 
through  the  busy  streets  like  a  true  free 
man  :  then  sleeping  undisturbed  by  an  over- 


Il6  STORIES    OF    THE   STRUGGLE 

filled  stomach  or  a  brain  racked  with  cares, 
and  the  nasty  dreams  engendered  by  the  one 
or  the  other !  Then  to  get  up  late  next 
morning,  often  late  enough  to  skip  the  very 
breakfast  one  has  to  do  without,  and  to  go 
out  into  rain  or  sunshine,  as  the  case  may 
be,  with  the  prospect  of  another  day's  bliss 
of  idleness.  It's  glorious !  And  then,  you 
see,  there  is  the  splendid  fun  of  being  stared 
at  by  every  policeman  on  '  my  beat '  and  to 
be  'shadowed  '  as  somebody  '  wanted '  by 
every  cross-eyed,  ill-favored,  ill-disguised 
Scotland  Yard  man,  whom  I  often  purpose 
ly  pretend  to  avoid  so  as  to  have  the  inde 
scribable  pleasure  of  being  followed  for 
days  at  a  stretch." 

"  You  wax  quite  eloquent !  "  I  remark 
ed,  "  but  between  you  and  me  and  the  lamp 
post,  don't  you  sometimes  give  the  guardians 
of  property  good  cause  to  suspect  you  ?  " 

"  Never !  "  he  most  emphatically  said. 
"  You  must  be  a  simpleton  to  suppose 
that  I  would  go  to  the  trouble  of  stealing, 
or  robbing  on  the  highway,  or  forging 
checks,  or  coining!  Why,  typesetting, 


THE    MAN    LAZY    ON    PRINCIPLE       1 1/ 

beastly,  hateful  typesetting,  which  I  have 
to  resort  to  when  I  find  that  '  Uncle  '  had 
got  possessed  of  all  of  my  movable  belong 
ings,  is  not  half  so  irksome  or  laborious  as 
any  of  the  criminal  professions.  I  dare  say, ' 
I  might  —  under  different  circumstances  — 
have  turned  my  mind  to  promoting  bubble- 
companies,  or  forming  syndicates,  or  going 
on  the  Stock  Exchange,  which,  besides  re 
quiring  very  little  physical  exertion,  have 
the  additional  merit  of  being  comparatively 
safe.  I  might  have  done  that,  I  say,  but 
then,  you  see,  my  needs  are  limited,  and  I 
have,  moreover,  no  taste  for  crime  in  any 
shape  or  form." 

"  By  Jingo !  "  I  said,  "  you  speak  like  a 
book." 

"  Like  a  bad  one,"  he  replied,  a  little 
self-complacently,  and  then,  relapsing  into 
a  sadder  mood,  he  added.  "  I  have  set  up 
just  enough  of  these  cursed  things  in  my 
time  to  talk  like  one." 

"  You  were  going  to  say  something  else 
when  I  interrupted  you." 

"  Nothing,  except  that  you  ought  to  have 


Il8  STORIES    OF    THE    STRUGGLE 

had  the  good  sense  to  understand  that  with 
a  conscience  ill  at  ease  I  could  never  have 
been  the  happy  man  I  now  am." 

"  But,"  said  I,  determined  to  probe  his 
queer  philosophy  to  the  bottom,  "  are  you 
—  really  and  truly,  now  —  are  you  hap- 
py?" 

"  Well,"  he  answered,  half-reluctantly, 
"  not,  perhaps,  absolutely  so ;  nobody  is  un 
der  the  present  conditions  of  society." 

That  expression  rather  tickled  me,  but  I 
let  him  talk  on. 

"  Both,"  he  said,  "  the  ever-needy  and 
the  ever-greedy  are  perpetually  hungry,  and 
therefore  never  contented. 

"  It  is  the  case,"  I  could  not  help  chim 
ing  in,  "  of  little  Oliver  Twist  here  and  King 
Solomon's  horseleech  there." 

"  And,  broadly  speaking,"  he  continued, 
"  humanity  is  composed  of  those  two 
classes.  Then,  you  know,  there  can  be  no 
true  happiness  so  long  as  '  to  have '  is 
everything  and  'to  be'  next  to  nothing; 
while,  in  fact,  nobody  does  strive  to  be  any 
thing  except  for  the  purpose  of  having 
something.  Again,  self-respect  is,  I  im- 


THE    MAX    LAZY    OX    PRINCIPLE       I  IQ 

agine,  an  essential  condition  of  happiness, 
of  real  happiness  (as  distinguished  from  the 
base-metal  finery  of  the  drawing-room), 
and  pray,  who  is  there  alive  now  between 
the  four  points  of  the  compass  who,  in  his 
heart  of  hearts,  could  possibly  respect  him 
self,  unless  he  be  as  conceited  as  a  London 
sheriff  and  as  stupid  as  a  gravestone? 
Who?  Surely  not  your  politician,  who 
hoodwinks  his  fellows,  nor  those  same  fel 
lows  who  submit  to  the  process.  Surely 
not  the  task-master  who  grinds  '  his  '  peo 
ple,  nor  the  people  who  put  up  with  the 
grinding,  evidently  taking  it  to  be  a  kind 
of  black  cholera  which  defies  all  remedies, 
or  else  considering  the  greatest  evil  of  the 
greatest  number  part  of  the  plan  on  which 
society  is  built.  Who  else?  Surely  not 
your  lawyer,  whom  I  would  not  describe, 
as  I  may  need  him,  nor  your  physician,  who 
thrives  on  disease,  nor  your  philanthropist, 
who  donates  the  chaff  and  keeps  the 
wheat,  nor  your  tradesman,  both  behind 
the  counter,  and  in  the  professional  chair, 
nor  — " 

"  Hold  on,"  I  said,  "  we  have  heard  that 


I2O  STORIES    OF    THE    STRUGGLE 

lay  before.     What  is  it  that  you  are  driving 
at?" 

"  Why,"  he  replied  angrily,  "  I  merely 
want  to  show  you  that  as  no  one  nowa 
days  can  honestly  respect  himself,  there 
would  be  one  reason  the  more  why  there 
can  be  no  absolute  happiness.  But  —  and 
now  I  come  to  answer  your  question  - 
within  these  limits  I  think  myself  a  happy 
man.  My  shabby  coat,  my  aged  trousers, 
my  w-eatherbeaten  cap,  my  ventilated  shoes, 
my  lodgings  —  at  times  air-tight,  at  others 
too  airy  —  my  scanty  and  not  ever-ready 
meal,  my  very  faults  —  and,  Heaven  knows, 
they  are  many  and  weighty  —  never  bother 
me.  I  do  not  even  worry  if,  before  allow 
ing  myself  to  go  into  harness  for  the  sake 
of  a  bite  or  a  sup  for  to-day  and  to-morrow, 
I  have  to  apply  to  a  friend  for  a  tanner  or 
a  bob,t  .  .  .  because  they  are  always 
welcome  to  what  little  I  can  spare,  pro 
vided  they  do  not  put  me  to  the  trouble  of 
*  giving,'  which  is  an  exertion  like  '  receiv 
ing/  and  more  disagreeable,  as  it  savors  of 
beneficence." 

t  A  sixpence  or  a  shilling. 


THE    MAN    LAZY    ON    PRINCIPLE       121 

"  To  judge,"  I  remarked,  "  from  your 
way  of  talking,  I  should  take  it  that  you 
are  a  bit  of  a  Socialist." 

"  You  are  wrong  there,"  he  replied 
quickly,  almost  snappishly.  He  was  silent 
for  a  moment,  and  then  continued,  speak 
ing  with  abated  animation : 

"  Not,  mind  you,  that  I  find  it  difficult 
to  accept  the  tenets  of  Socialism,  or  that  I 
fail  to  see  the  very  inevitableness  of  its  ad 
vent  as  a  system  of  society  soon  to  replace 
the  wild  scramble  we  live  under;  but  the 
way  I  look  on  such  tilings  is  briefly  this : 
A  wine  barrel  is  not  the  same  thing  as  a 
barrel  of  wine,  and  there  is  no  duty  on 
names.  To  label  oneself  this,  that,  or  the 
other  is  about  as  easy  as  lying.  Unless, 
then,  a  man  does  something  to  justify  his 
name,  title,  or  sobriquet,  he  might  as  well 
style  himself  Rameses  II  as  Socialist. 
Now,  doing,  acting,  and  working  for  any 
cause  whatsoever  is  not  in  my  line." 

Having  said  which,  Mike  gave  me  to 
understand  that  he  had  talked  himself  out 
of  breath,  and  I  left  him  to  enjoy  a  well- 
earned  rest. 


ECK-KE 
(1899) 

The  sweet  voice  now  was  silent,  and  as 
the  vibrations  of  the  last  notes  were  dy 
ing  out,  several  persons  of  both  sexes  sur 
rounded  the  owner  of  that  marvellous  vocal 
instrument  whose  sounds  had  just  been 
caressing  their  ears,  while  filling  their  hearts 
with  love,  and  hope,  and  faith. 

Among  those  who  came  up  to  shake 
hands  with  the  tribune  of  the  people  was  a 
middle-aged,  stumpy,  poorly-clad  individ 
ual  with  a  pair  of  small,  grey,  sly  eyes,  a 
narrow,  almost  idiotic  looking  forehead,  a 
peculiarly  shaped  mouth  devoid  of  front 
teeth,  and  a  nose  flatter  and  shorter  than 
the  average  run  of  East  Side  noses.  A 
beard  of  fully  ten  days'  growth  served  to 
render  his  face  well—nigh  repulsive,  while 
the  absence  of  collar  and  tie  clearly  demon- 

122 


ECK-KE  123 

strated  the  man's  contempt  for  convention 
alities. 

He  offered  the  speaker  a  cold,  fishy  hand, 
doing  it  in  a  manner  rather  obtrusive,  if 
not  bold. 

"  How  do  you  do  ?  "  said  Mr.  Debs,  who 
possesses  the  art  of  pronouncing  those  usu 
ally  politely-meaningless  words  in  a  way 
to  make  you  feel  certain  that  the  man  ad 
dressing  that  inquiry  to  you  is  in  all  serious 
ness  anxious  to  know  the  state  of  your 
health,  sincerely  hoping  to  hear  from  you 
that  you  are  really  and  truly  well. 

Before  the  other  could  have  found  time  to 
say  anything  in  reply,  he  added : 

"  What  is  your  name,  Comrade?  " 

The  man  did  not  answer,  and  there  was 
a  half-subdued  titter  among  the  bystanders. 
Debs  could  not  help  noticing  that  there  wras 
something  wrong,  and  looked  a  little  puz 
zled. 

What  was  the  matter  with  the  man? 
Nothing.  He  was  neither  bashful,  nor  un 
mannerly,  but  simply  dumb. 

It  was  the  deaf-mute  baister  Eck-Ke, 
commonly  so  called  because  those  two  sylla- 


124  STORIES    OF    THE    STRUGGLE 

bles  were  the  only  ones  the  poor  fellow  could 
articulate.  It  was  deaf  Silence  that  came 
to  pay  homage  to  eloquent  Speech. 

What,  you  wonder,  was  he,  of  all  people 
in  the  world,  doing  at  that  meeting  of  ours? 

Well,  he  was  listening  without  hearing 
so  as  to  repeat  without  talking,  which  is 
the  plain,  unvarnished  truth.  As,  however, 
you  look  a  little  dubious,  let  me  give  you 
the  information  I  am  possessed  of,  and  you 

will  judge  for  yourselves. 
*     *     * 

Eck-Ke  is  a  Russian  Jew.  He  came  to 
this  country  early  in  the  eighties,  along  with 
the  others,  after  the  first  great  anti-semitic 
onslaught  on  Jews  and  decency.  He  must 
have  been  quite  young  at  that  time. 

His  physical  defect  is  the  result  of  an 
accident  which  occurred  when  he  was  three 
years  old.  At  the  time  of  writing  he  is 
the  father  of  a  family,  and  very  proud  of  his 
children, —  with  good  reason,  no  doubt. 
As  a  sober,  industrious  and  skilled  work 
man  he  seems  to  earn  as  much  as  anyone 
else  in  his  trade,  and  his  folks  are  natu 
rally  greatly  attached  to  him.  He  is,  and 


ECK-KE  125 

always  has  been,  a  strict  union-man,  aye, 
and  an  intelligent  one,  to  boot.  He  not 
only  takes  considerable  pride  in  his  union 
card,  but  thoroughly  understands  both  the 
immediate  and  the  ultimate  aims  of  union 
ism. 

Several  years  ago  there  was  a  sort  of 
general  strike  in  the  East  Side  tailoring 
trade.  It  goes  without  saying  that  Eck-Ke 
held  out  to  the  bitter  end,  and  the  end,  let 
me  say  in  passing,  was  very  bitter  indeed. 
Seeing  that  strikes  are  almost  always  be 
gun  with  more  enthusiasm  in  the  ranks 
than  cash  in  the  treasury,  they  come,  among 
our  people,  unfortunately  only  too  often  to 
such  an  end.  But  Eck-Ke  on  that  occasion 
did  more  than  hold  out;  he  won  his  spurs. 

The  great  event  of  his  life  happened  in 
this  wise: 

During  a  parade  or  something  Eck-Ke 
saw  a  wrathful  policeman  with  pro-capital 
istic  propensities  make  free  with  his  club 
much  to  the  discomfort  of  a  number  of 
heads.  Others  probably  saw  it  too.  Un 
like  them,  however,  Eck-Ke  could  neither 
hear  nor  speak,  so  he  acted.  A  scuffle  en- 


126  STORIES   OF    THE   STRUGGLE 

sued.  Our  friend  was  worsted.  All  the 
same  outraged  Authority  had  to  be  avenged, 
and  he  was  arrested.  When  the  case  of  the 
People  versus  the  deaf-mute  was  decided  in 
favor  of  the  former,  Eck-Ke  went  to  jail 

for  four  calendar  months. 

*     *     * 

His  attitude  toward  the  Socialist  move 
ment  is  that  of  a  sympathizer.  There  is  no 
direct  evidence  of  his  ever  having  been  offi 
cially  connected  with  any  party,  but  he 
takes  a  livelier  interest  in  all  our  family 
scraps  than  many  an  old  timer,  which  is, 
perhaps,  not  exactly  to  his  credit. 

With  all  his  sympathy  for  Socialism  he  is 
a  union  man  first,  last  and  all  the  time.  As 
such  he  is  ready  to  fight,  and  that  to  the 
last  ditch,  as  the  phrase  goes,  any  party  or 
individual  in  the  Socialist  movement  whom 
he  considers  antagonistic  to  organized  labor, 
no  matter  how  organized.  It  is  for  that 
reason  that  he  opposes  unity  with  the  S. 
L.  P.,  and  every  time  the  subject  is  broached 
he  gives  vent  to  his  feelings  by  making  as 
wry  a  face  as  if  he  had  swallowed  a  turn- 


ECK-KE  127 

blerful  of  vinegar,  accompanying  the  horri 
ble  grimace  by  a  shrill,  drawn  out  yell. 

There  is  a  cafe  on  Grand  street  which  is 
frequented  by  the  progressive  element  of 
Jewish  young  men  in  process  of  American 
ization.  Eck-Ke  may  be  seen  there  almost 
every  evening  in  the  week.  He  comes  for 
a  chat,  as  it  were :  some  of  the  boys  can  talk 
to  him. 

When  there  is  anything  of  interest  in  the 
papers,  he  takes  them  home,  and  gets  his 
children  to  tell  him  all  he  wants  to  know 
about.  Once  in  full  possession  of  the  facts 
he  comes  back  to  the  cafe,  ready  for  an 
argument  and  woe  to  him  or  her  who  ven 
tures  to  disagree  with  him. 
*  *  * 

Such  a  thing  as  a  religious  Socialist 
among  the  younger  generation  of  Russian 
Jews  is  indeed  a  rara  avis.  If  there  be  an 
exception  to  the  rule,  it  surely  is  not  our 
friend  Eck-Ke.  He  not  only  is  decidedly 
irreligious,  but  perfectly  "  outspoken " 
about  it.  More  than  that,  he  occasionally 
even  goes  out  of  his  way  to  tease  his  pious 


128  STORIES    OF    THE   STRUGGLE 

brethren,  as  the  following  well-authen 
ticated  little  story  would  go  to  show : 

One  day  Eck-Ke  was  accosted  on  the 
street  by  a  very  excited  individual  in  search 
of  a  "  tenth  man  "  needed  in  order  to  make 
up  a  prayer-meeting  (a  "  minyan,"  requir 
ing  at  least  ten  men ;  women,  children,  deaf- 
mutes,  etc.,  not  counting).  So  eager  was 
the  man  to  get  somebody  looking  more  or 
less  like  an  old-fashioned,  religious  Jew, 
that  he  fairly  dragged  Eck-Ke  into  the 
house,  where  the  services  were  to  be  held. 
In  an  instant  Eck-Ke  had  taken  in  the  sit 
uation,  and  inwardly  chuckling,  he  obeyed 
the  summons,  and  soon  formed  part  of  the 
congregation,  well  aware  of  the  fact  that 
his  ignorance  of  the  ritual  entirely  incapac 
itated  him  from  completing  the  requisite 
number.  Prayers  over,  he  set  his  fingers 
to  work,  and  with  the  broadest  grin  on  his 
face,  he  made  the  trick  plain  to  the  nine 
good  and  pious  co-religionists. 

Take  him  all  in  all,  Eck-Ke  is  undoubt 
edly  a  character. 


ELIAKUM  ZUNSER 

JESTER,    PRINTER,    AND    YIDDISH    BARD 
(1902) 

Toward  the  end  of  the  sixties  the 
Lithuanian  city  of  Kovno,  in  Russia,  could 
boast  of  but  few  booksellers.  One  of  the 
two  whose  stores  had  a  more  or  less  modern 
complexion,  the  books  therein  being  of  a 
polyglot  character,  was  a  red-haired, 
undersized,  weak-eyed,  weak-everything- 
elsed  individual,  an  almost  bodyless  little 
man.  His  store  was  hidden  away  in  a  quiet 
nook  of  a  large,  at  times  malodorous  court 
yard,  out  of  sight,  as  it  were.  In  Russia, 
you  see,  both  the  Jew  and  the  Book  feel 
safest  in  the  shade,  both  of  them  being 
tabooed ;  to  some  extent,  anyway. 

This  man's  customers  were  mainly  school 
boys,  youngsters,  that  is,  out  of  the  old- 
fashioned  "  Cheder  "  who  were  allowed  a 
129 


I3O  STORIES    OF    THE   STRUGGLE 

two  years'  course  in  the  public  school,  where 
they  got  a  knowledge  of  the  three  R's  and 
a  proper  understanding  of  the  beauties  of 
autocracy. 

I  was  one  of  the  number.  I  used  to  go 
there  to  feast  my  eyes  on  that  wonderful 
collection  of  books  in  all  languages,  which 
the  man  had  on  his  shelves,  in  an  apology 
for  a  trunk  with  its  lid  half  gone,  and  in 
the  capacious  pockets  of  his  overcoat  —  a 
garment  which  occasionally  did  duty  for  a 
bed-cover  and  a  window  blind.  I  was  then 
about  twelve  years  old,  a  budding  fabulist, 
with  Kryloff  as  my  model,  and  a  partner 
about  my  own  age  to  "  make  up  "  the  story, 
he,  in  my  opinion,  being  a  great  authority 
on  wild  and  domesticated  animals.  In  his 
company  I  often  spent  a  delightful  half- 
hour  gazing  at  the  books,  full  of  reverence 
not  only  for  themselves,  but  for  the  very 
dust  enveloping  them,  and  even  for  the 
spider  on  the  top  shelf,  who,  without  any 
undue  interference,  busily  manufactured 
textile  fabrics  in  his  own  ingenious  way, 
probably  thankful  for  the  continued  ab- 


ELIAKUM    ZUNSER  13! 

sence  of  cobweb  machines  owned  by  some 
cobweb  trust. 

One  summer  evening  as  my  friend  and 
I  were  in  the  bookshop  discussing  a  plot  for 
a  new  fable,  we  were  surprised  to  hear  the 
proprietor  hum  a  sweet,  typically  Jewish 
tune.  We  stopped  talking  and  listened. 
The  man  raised  his  voice  and  continued  a 
song  about  a  flower  that  was  once  full  of 
fragrance  and  life,  guarded  from  evil  winds, 
admired  by  all,  but  now  detached  from  its 
native  soil,  despised  and  neglected,  blown 
into  the  gutter  by  a  furious  gale.  Poor, 
outcast  Jewish  race ! 

The  bookseller's  weak  eyes,  never  dry  on 
general  principles,  now  filled  up  to  the  ex 
tent  of  looking  like  crying,  but  that  stage 
was  not  reached. 

"Whose  are  the  words?"  he  plainly 
read  in  our  faces,  for  he  said : 

"  What,  you  don't  know  ?  Why,  it's  one 
of  the  songs  of  Eliakum  the  badchan,  the 
famous  merrymaker  who  sings  at  the  rich 
est  weddings,  and  gets  fabulous  sums  of 
money  for  his  rhymes." 


132  STORIES    OF    THE    STRUGGLE 

"  For  example  ?  "  my  friend  asked,  who 
in  his  mind  was  then  perhaps  trying  to 
figure  out  the  market  value  of  fables  as 
compared  with  wedding  rhymes. 

"  Well,"  said  the  bookman,  "  I  can't  tell, 
but  I  know  of  one  case  where  he  was  offered 
as  much  as  twenty-five  roubles  to  come  here 
from  Wilna." 

"Railroad  fare  paid?"  my  friend  fur 
ther  asked. 

"I  think  so,"  said  the  other;  "third 
class,  of  course !  " 

"  'Tis  wonderful,  as  I  am  a  Jew !  "  ejac 
ulated  my  partner  in  (the  clearly  much  less 
remunerative)  fable  business." 

I  was  silent.  I  was,  in  fact,  dumb 
founded.  Here  was,  in  the  first  place,  a 
badchan,  a  fellow,  socially  a  degree  lower 
than  a  fiddler,  spoken  of  by  a  man  like  the 
bookseller,  one  who  usually  weighs  his 
words,  as  "  Eliakum,"  instead  of  "  Elia- 
kum-ke,."  that  is  without  the  affix  "  ke " 
denoting  contempt  when  applied  to  an 
adult.  That  same  badchan,  moreover, 
writes  not  only  funny  rhymes,  but  poems, 


ELIAKUM    ZUNSEU  133 

and  people  recite  them,  sing  them.  Who 
ever  heard  of  such  a  thing? 

The  bookseller  had,  however,  a  still 
greater  surprise  for  me.  While  I  was  ru 
minating  about  it  all  he  had  gone  up  to  the 
place  where  the  overcoat  aforesaid  was 
summering,  and  pulled  out  from  the  appar 
ently  bottomless  depths  of  the  pockets  a 
large  pile  of  promiscuous  printed  matter. 
After  a  long  search,  in  which  his  nose  took 
as  much  of  a  part  as  his  weak,  watering 
eyes,  he  produced  a  small  booklet. 

"  Here,"  he  said,  "  are  some  of  Elia- 
kum's  songs  in  print.  Cheap,  boys,  very 
cheap." 

He  named  the  price.  It  was  only  a  few 
kopecks,  but  I  was  just  then  financially 
somewhat  embarrassed,  having  only  a  week 
or  so  before  invested  a  little  fortune  (about 
a  nickel,  in  American  money)  in  a  cheap 
paper  edition  of  Kryloff's  fables.  But  it 
was  not  the  money  part  of  the  thing  that 
kept  me  absorbed  in  thought  at  the  sight  of 
the  booklet.  It  was  the  idea,  the  prepos 
terous  idea  of  a  badchan-fellow's  writings 


134  STORIES    OF    THE    STRUGGLE 

being  printed,  published  and  sold,  yes,  sold> 
just  like  any  other  respectable  publication, 
and  that  by  a  man  who  handles  the  Russian 
poets,  Zschokke's  novels,  and  the  choicest 
Hebrew  books!  And  now,  as  if  to  cap  the 
climax,  the  bookseller  informed  us  that  the 
print  I  was  looking  at  was  only  one  of  a 
series,  published  in  Wilna  since  1861. 

"  Is  that  possible !  "  I  felt  like  exclaiming, 
but  the  piece  of  information  having  literally 
taken  my  breath  away  I  said  nothing. 

A  week  or  two  later  I  raised  funds  suffi 
cient  to  become  the  lawful  owner  (I  insist 
on  the  adjective,  it  is  important  when  you 
talk  of  books)  of  a  couple  of  Eliakum  Zun- 
ser's  publications. 

In  1871  something  happened  that  most 
forcibly  brought  back  to  my  mind  the  Jew 
bard  and  his  songs. 

The  news  reached  us  in  Kovno  that  the 
cholera,  then  raging  in  Wilna,  had  wiped 
out  of  the  Book  of  the  Living  three  of  Elia 
kum 's  children;  that  he  fled  from  grim 
death  to  Minsk,  but,  on  the  way,  the  fourth 
and  last  child  and  his  wife  had  succumbed. 


ELIAKUM    ZUNSER  135 

This  tragic  incident  reminded  us  of  the 
existence  of  the  sorrow-laden,  heart-broken 
singer  who  was  still  obliged  to  exhilarate 
people  entering  into  the  bonds  of  matri 
mony;  to  go  on  writing  songs,  dipping  his 
pen  in  his  still  bleeding  wounds,  and  then 
setting  his  words  to  music  by  way  of  turn 
ing  wails  and  sighs  into  harmonious  sounds. 

"  Here  of  three  children  a  father  bereft, 
Buries  the  last  one,  Death  seemed  to  have  left 
Him,  and  as  this  comes  to  pass,  he  in  his  plight. 
Seeks  from  his  cruel  fate  refuge  in  flight. 
Four  little  darlings  gone;  beautiful,  sweet. 
Lovely  beloved  ones,  bright  and  so  neat, 
All  in  five  days  devoured,  all  in  their  graves 
Leaving   me    shipwrecked,    a   plank   tossed   by 
waves." 

And  in  spite  of  the  ungainliness,  the  un 
civilized  look  and  sound  of  the  "  vulgar 
Yiddish,"  we  shed  tears  as  we  listened  to 
the  bitter-sweet  song  of  the  Job-tried  singer. 
Some  thirty  years  later  I  was  privileged 
to  entertain  Mr.  Zunser  as  a  visitor  at  my 
house.  I  then  for  the  first  time  met  him 
face  to  face,  and  in  the  course  of  the  even- 


136  STORIES   OF   THE   STRUGGLE 

ing  he  was  kind  enough  to  recite  the  very 
poem  from  which  I  quoted  (hastily  done 
into  English)  the  above  few  lines. 

I  learned  at  that  time  a  great  many  de 
tails  with  regard  to  his  highly  interesting 
career.  The  singer,  it  appeared,  had  to  turn 
printer  in  this  practical  matter-of-fact  coun 
try;  the  heavy  leaden  type  having  proved 
more  serviceable  in  procuring  his  daily 
bread  than  the  airy  flights  of  the  most  fanci 
ful  muse. 

Of  course,  he  had  been  writing,  too,  all 
these  years,  and  not  only  a  great  deal,  but 
things  that  in  some  respects  were  vastly  su 
perior  to  his  earlier  efforts.  His  vocabulary 
was  still  rather  poor,  his  rhythm  still  faulty, 
although  hardly  noticeable  when  sung.  He 
had  enlarged  his  vocabulary  by  adopting 
many  Slavonic  and  Anglo-Saxon  words, 
while  his  rhymes  still  sounded  more  like  the 
jingle  of  the  old-time  badchan  than  any 
thing  else.  Notwithstanding  all  this,  and 
whatever  else  might  be  urged  against  Mr. 
Zunser's  lyrical  effusions,  you  need  read  only 
such  of  his  poems  as  "  The  Aristocrat," 
"The  Immortal  People,"  "To  the  Stars," 


ELIAKUM    ZUNSER  137 

"  The  Nineteenth  Century,"  "  My  feelings," 
in  order  to  realise  that  you  have  to  deal 
with  a  true  poet,  one  who,  perhaps,  lacks  a 
language,  through  which  to  give  suitable 
expression  to  his  thoughts  and  feelings,  but 
who  is  a  poet  all  the  same.  Unlike  Ra 
phael,  for  whom  it  is  claimed  that  he  would 
have  been  a  painter  even  if  he  had  come  into 
this  world  without  hands,  Mr.  Zunser  would 
in  all  probability  never  have  written  a  line 
without  the  use  of  words,  but  he  is  un 
doubtedly  a  poet,  of  the  kind  that  are  born, 
not  made,  whatever  his  shortcomings. 

The  main  burden  of  his  riper  productions, 
of  which  the  few  above-mentioned  are  prob 
ably  among  the  best,  is  a  protest,  reiterated 
over  and  over  again,  directed  against  "  as 
similation,"  against  national  self-effacement, 
even  against  free  thought,  inasmuch  as  it 
may  lead  to  the  weakening  of  the  national 
bonds  among  the  Jews.  He  goes  so  far 
as  to  regard  the  persecution  to  which  the 
Children  of  Israel  are  subjected  here  and 
there  as  a  sort  of  blessing  in  disguise;  he 
sees  in  it  all  the  hand  of  the  national  guar 
dian  angel,  who  employs  this,  in  the  opin- 


138  STORIES    OF    THE   STRUGGLE 

ion  of  some  of  us,  somewhat  peculiar 
method  for  the  preservation  of  the  purity 
and  the  integrity  of  the  race.  It  need 
hardly  be  pointed  out  that  the  only  thing 
new  about  this  is  the  forcible,  in  some  places 
beautiful,  way  Zunser  has  of  putting  it. 

It  is  safe  to  say  that  had  he,  in  addition  to 
his  powers  of  observation,  his  quiet  humor, 
his  good  heart  and  depth  of  feeling,  enjoyed 
a  systematic  education,  he  would  have  de 
veloped  into  a  sort  of  Jewish  Beranger.  As 
it  is,  he  lacks,  of  course,  to  say  the  least,  the 
great  Frenchman's  polish,  but  he  is  for  that 
very  reason  a  truly  Jewish  bard. 


THE  BLUES  VERSUS  THE  REDS, 

BEING   SUGGESTIONS   OF   LAWS    AGAINST    THE 

ANARCHISTS,  DRAFTED  BY  A  GOOD 

CITIZEN. 

(IQOI) 

The  blues,  that's  what  is  the  matter  with 
us  just  at  present. 

The  Reds  are  at  the  bottom  of  it  all. 

The  Reds  being  dark  red.  we  are  troubled 
with  blues  which  are  dark  blue,  very  dark 
blue,  more  dark,  in  fact,  than  blue. 

The  Blues  then,  it  is  clear,  have  to  fight 
the  Reds. 

The  situation  demands  the  adoption  of 
drastic  measures. 

I,  therefore,  respectfully  submit  a  few 
such  measures,  trusting  that  they  will  be 
amplified,  and  so  amended,  as  to  fully  meet 
the  requirements  in  the  case. 

In  order  to  facilitate  the  universal  under 
standing  of  the  following  laws  against  the 

139 


I4O  STORIES    OF    THE    STRUGGLE 

Reds,  I  deemed  it  proper  to  divest  them  in 
many  instances  of  the  legal  phraseology. 
Should  they,  however,  as  I  hope  they  will, 
be  adopted  and  placed  on  the  statute  book, 
the  learned  profession  will,  no  doubt,  so 
rephrase  and  redraft  them,  as  to  make 
them  duly  obscure,  and  properly  unintellig 
ible  to  the  lay  mind. 

Here  is  the  draft  aforesaid  in  its  present 
crude  shape. 

ANYBODY  OR  ANYBODY  ELSE  : 

Whether  high  or  low  or  a  church-beadle; 

Whether  masculine,   feminine  or  neuter; 

Without  distinction  as  to  race,  creed, 
color,  dye,  real  or  false  teeth,  hair  or  pro 
fession  ; 

Whether  whiskered,  bald-faced  (not 
bold-faced),  long-haired  or  pig-tailed; 

Whether  in  or  out  of  his,  her  or  its  wits, 
senses  or  anything  that  may  pass  for,  or  be 
regarded  as,  such; 

Whether  in  or  out  of  office,  be  it  sacred 
or  profane,  be  it  national.  State,  municipal, 
district,  janitorial,  mercantile,  educational, 
journalistic  (or  otherwise  impudent), 


THE    BLUES    VERSUS    THE    REDS 

street-cleaning,  home,  foreign,  permanent  or 
temporary;  with  or  without  reward,  pay, 
compensation,  emolument,  reguerdon,  rec 
ompense  or  remuneration;  no  matter 
whether  in  the  shape  of  salary,  wages,  fees, 
sops,  persequisites,  tips,  bribes,  hush-money, 
solacium,  railroad  passes,  theatre  passes, 
grants,  franchises,  divorce-court-admission- 
tickets,  votes,  name-handles,  chairmanships, 
or  compliments  (as  to  youth  and  beauty) 
in  the  case  of  spinsters,  ladies  in  general, 
and  aging  bachelors  of  no  arts; 

Whether  they  be  gifted  with  speech  or  be 
mute,  or  a  cross  between  the  two.  if,  that  is, 
they  be  diplomatically  constituted  persons; 

Whether  silver-tongued  or  brazen-faced, 
whether  quiet,  noisy,  whistling,  muttering 
or  barrell-organically  musical; 

Whether  they  be  policemen  or,  on  the 
contrary,  watchful  people;  handwriting  ex 
perts  or  rather  adverse  to  perjury  as  a 
trade ; 

Whether  in  or  out  of  love,  single  or 
plural,  free  or  encumbered  either  with 
mothers-in-law  or  counsellors-at-ditto,  with 
borrowing  brothers  or  worrying  lodge- 


142  STORIES    OF    THE    STRUGGLE 

brethren,  with  too  frequent  triplets,  un 
marketable  poems,  unbusinesslike  scruples; 
with  bibliomania,  clear,  i.  e.  costly  friends, 
and  other  things  or  beings  of  the  same  na 
ture,  character,  kind  or  description ; 

Whether  they  believe  in  free  love,  chained 
love,  love  in  anticipation  of  a  valuable 
death,  love  on  the  installment  plan,  love  sale 
able  to  the  highest  bidder,  love  in  exchange 
for  a  title,  love  for  domestic  use  or  foreign 
exportation,  love  platonic,  histrionic,  oper 
atic,  leg-high-up-ic,  mormonic,  morganatic, 
poetically  constant,  or,  on  the  contrary,  real 
love ;  love  with  or  without  regard  to  and  for 
gastronomy  and  dyspepsia,  to  and  for  soup 
cooked  with  or  without  thrilling  dime-no 
vels  ; 

Whether  they  be  smokers,  chewers  and 
coughers,  or  persons  who  expectorate  for 
the  fun  of  the  thing; 

Whether  they  be  afflicted  with  a  mania 
for  pictures  or  drawings  representing  either 
landscapes,  nude  live  stock,  or  pure  Corn- 
stock  in  fact,  any  but  watered  stock ; 

Whether  they  make  a  living,  or  speeches, 
or  money  to  burn,  or  burnings  for  money, 


THE   BLUES    VERSUS    THE    REDS         143 

or  fools  of  themselves,  of  matches  (parlor, 
kitchen  or  diamond,  settlement-girt  safety 
matches),  or  anything  else  calculated  to 
either  give  light  or  cause  a  (conjugal)  ex 
plosion  in  a  house ; 

Whether  they  be  store-keepers,  score- 
keepers,  game-keepers,  park-keepers,  book 
keepers,  saloon-keepers,  or,  in  a  general  way 
keepers  of  all  they  can  lay  hands  on : — 


Now  all  these  persons,  both  home-grown 
and  imported,  naturalized  and  denatural 
ized,  carnivorous,  herbivorous,  omnivorous 
and  humble  pie  eaters,  will  henceforth  come 
under  the  following  laws,  rules,  regulations, 
restrictions  and  ordinances,  to  wit : 

I.  All  Anarchists,  whether  they  be  such  or 
not,  are  to  be  swiftly  and  ruthlessly  exter 
minated. 

II.  Under  the  designation  of  "  anarchist  " 
come   all   those   who   are   commonly   called 
"  reds,"    irrespective    of    their    professions. 
(Harvard  may  remain  crimson,  provided  the 
philological  faculty  unequivocally  declare  in 
writing  that  there  is  a  distinction  between 
crimson  and  red,  and  that  there  is,  further- 


144  STORIES    OF    THE    STRUGGLE 

more,  no  organic  relation  between  crimson 
and  crime.) 

III.  Everybody  will  be  taken  to  be  a  red, 
i.  e.,  a  dangerous  person  in  an  embryonic 
stage,  who  shall  be  found  wearing  a  red  but 
ton,  a  red  shawl,  a  red  necktie,  a  red  ribbon, 
or  a  red  nose,  he,  she  or  it  being  unable,  (in 
the  case  of  nasal  rubicundity,   that   is)    to 
prove  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  authorities 
by  means  of  a  sworn  affidavit  of  no  less  than 
three  saloon-keepers,  that  he,  she  or  it,  as 
the  case  may  be,  has  acquired  the  red  nose 
aforesaid  in  a  legal  way. 

IV.  Anybody  red  in  the  face  will  have  to 
satisfy  the  police  that  he.  she  or  it,  has  come 
by  such  redfacedness  through  nothing  but 
excessive  drinking,  or  the  reading  of  some 
politicians'  biographies,  or  a  pugilistic  slap 
in  the  face,  or  a  perusal  of  the  Police  News, 
of  certain  divorce  proceedings,  same  being 
low-life-triangles  in  high-life-circles,  or  from 
some  other  cause  equally  natural  and,  there 
fore  unobjectionable. 

V.  If  caught,  reds  may  be  lynched  as  if 
they   had   been  blacks,   lawlessness   against 


THE    BLUES    VERSUS    THE    REDS         145 

the  lawless  being  lawful  though  technically 
lawless. 

VI.  Henceforth    each    and    every    immi 
grant  must  bring  along  with  him,  her  or  it, 
a  certificate  of  good  behavior  from  the  old 
country,    proving    beyond    any    manner    of 
doubt  that  he,  she  or  it  had  in  his,  her  or  its 
native  place  been  a  good  and  faithful  sub 
ject;  had  never  been  to  any  political  meeting 
of  a  subversive  kind,  had  never  called  any 
body  "  comrade,"  had  never  belonged  to  any 
trade  union,  had  taken  part  in  no  strike  (ex 
cept  by  way  of  betraying  rebellious  strikers), 
had  been  a  church  member,  had  gone  to  a 
Sunday  school  when  a  youth,  and  had  de 
nounced  to  the  powers  that  be  every  revolu 
tionist  within  his,  her  or  its  cognizance. 

VII.  They  would,   furthermore,  have  to 
prove  that  they  had  no  connection  with  either 
Polish  Insurrectionists,  or  the  Paris  Com 
munards,    or    English    Chartists    (dead    or 
alive,)   or  Irish  Fenians,  or  Russian  Nihi 
lists,  or  Italian  Carbonari,  or  German  Social 
Democrats,  or  Austrian  Reichsrath  rowdies, 
or  Spanish  Carlists,  or  European  malicious 


146  STORIES   OF    THE   STRUGGLE 

detractors  of  Chicago  canned  beef,  or  any 
other  dangerous  malcontents. 

VIII.  They  would  also  have  to  satisfy  the 
authorities  that  they  never  read  the  early 
writings  of  Tennyson,   and   Swinburne,  or 
the  mature  writings  of  William  Morris  and 
one  G.   Herwegh,   or  any  other  poetry  or 
prose  of  a  seditious  nature,  more  particular 
ly  the  treasonable  poems  of  the  notorious 
Shelley,  and  certain  deviltry  of  Robert  Bu 
chanan. 

IX.  Any    pregnant    woman    landing    on 
Ellis  Island  or  elsewhere,  shall  be  kept  in 
quarantine  until  such  time  as  she  may  give 
birth  to  the  foreign  conception.     Should  the 
child  appear  to  the  authorities  suspiciously 
red  in  the  skin,  or  too  much  of  a  squealer, 
thus  giving  signs  of  a  discontented  disposi 
tion,  or  manifest  an  objection  to  swaddling 
clothes,  thereby  betraying  a  proneness  to  an 
inordinate  degree  of  freedom,  or  rebelliously 
kick  in  the  washtub,  or  otherwise  behave  in 
a  manner  incompatible  with  good,  lawabid- 
ing    citizenship, —  in    all    such    cases    both 
mother  and  child  are  to  be  sent  back  to  Eu 
rope,  the  United  States  Government  paying 


THE   BLUES   VERSUS    THE    REDS        147 

the  return  passage,  and  charging  same  to 
"  Statue  of  Liberty,  Maintenance  Account." 

X.  Open  air  meetings  to  be  strictly  pro 
hibited,  except  when  called  by  bona  fide  Re 
publicans,  Gold  Standard  Democrats-,  thor 
oughly  sterilized  and  disinfected  Populists, 
the  Salvation  Army,  Prohibitionists  of  the 
"  horrible  example "  variety,  soap-selling 
fakers,  a  genuine  dead  horse  in  the  street,  as 
well  as  in  the  case  of  juvenile  bonfire  wor- 
shippers,  or  of  "  curb  "  stock  brokers,  of  a 
house  on  fire,  and  of  an  arrested  youngster 
who  may  have  purloined  a  loaf  of  bread, 
naturally  causing  an  assemblage  of  indignant 
honest  people. 

XL  Poles,  Italians  and  Peter  Kropotkin 
are  not  to  be  allowed  to  land  at  all.  Italians 
\vhose  declared  place  of  destination  be  Pater- 
son,  N.  J.,  must  be  searched,  divested  of  all 
weapons  (including  suspicious  looking  pen 
knives,  corkscrews  and  metal  toothpicks,) 
and  sent  back  to  Europe  before  their  arrival 
in  this  country. 

XII.  Nobody  shall  be  permitted  to  sell, 
vend,  give,  barter,  present,  transfer,  send, 
forward,  hand,  convey,  dispense  or  deliver 


148  STORIES   OF   THE   STRUGGLE 

any  books,  booklets,  leaflets,  pamphlets, 
tracts,  circulars,  appeals,  manifestoes,  hand 
bills,  programmes,  papers,  journals,  maga 
zines,  annuals,  manuals,  almanacs,  reviews, 
or  periodicals  of  any  and  every  kind,  either 
printed,  lithographed,  typewritten,  hand 
written,  or  otherwise  published,  made 
known,  written  out,  either  in  longhand, 
shorthand,  or  in  any  other  way,  in  English 
or  in  any  other  language,  dead  or  alive, 
which  may  contain  either  openly  or  implied, 
insinuated,  hinted,  or  by  way  of  allusion, 
matter  savoring  of  rebellion,  disobedience  or 
disregard  for  law  and  order,  its  guardians 
and  officers,  legislative,  executive  and  de 
tective. 

XIII.  In  all  school  books  the  phrase  in 
the  Declaration  of  Independence  proclaim 
ing  all  men  to  be  born  equal,  as  well  as  all 
phrases  about  liberty  and  happiness  and  all 
the  rest  of  it  to  be  expunged. 


A  PERSEVERING  WOMAN 
(1908) 
I 

Lost  in  admiration,  I  stood  outside  the 
Tonhalle,  in  Zurich,  Switzerland,  watching 
the  formation  of  that  memorable  parade 
which,  in  the  afternoon  of  Sunday,  August 
6,  1893,  followed  the  inaugural  session  of 
the  third  International  Congress  of  Social 
ists  and  Trade  Unionists.  Old  Sol  behaved 
splendidly,  providing,  as  he  did,  as  much 
light  as  the  most  exacting  could  desire,  with 
out  "  taking  it  out  of  us  "  in  undue  perspi 
ration.  The  Lake,  too,  was  delightful. 
While  as  transparent  as  a  professional  poli 
tician's  philanthropy,  only  a  good  deal 
purer,  it  was  quietly  frollicking  with  the 
mountain  breeze  that  had  evidently  come 
down  with  the  set  purpose  of  taking  part  in 
the  jolly  gathering  of  the  nations. 

All  the  time  the  procession  was  form- 
149 


I5O  STORIES    OF    THE    STRUGGLE 

ing.  As  these  lines  are  being  penned,  I 
fancy  I  am  witnessing  the  whole  glorious 
scene  over  again. 

Here,  for  instance,  is  the  detachment  of 
the  sturdy  sons  of  Labor,  all  in  plain,  but 
clean,  almost  uniform  attire,  marching  up 
under  the  strains  of  Rouget  de  Lisle's  im 
mortal  hymn,  carrying  the  banners  of  their 
various  trades,  each  head  erect,  each  step 
elastic. 

They  pass  by.  They  take  their  stand 
somewhere,  and  are  succeeded  by  another 
legion.  It  is  the  militia.  What,  in  the 
name  of  thunder,  are  they  doing  there? 
Well,  Vogelsang,  Comrade  Vogelsang,  you 
know,  is  the  chief  commissioner  of  the  po 
lice,  or  something  akin  to  that,  and  the  mi 
litia-fellows  are  in  our  ranks  by  his  orders, 
as  brothers  in  arms.  It  is  a  capital  joke, 
isn't  it? 

They,  too,  pass  along.  There  is  some 
thing  else.  It's  the  children,  bless  their 
little  hearts!  Here  they  are,  some  four 
hundred  of  them,  all  in  white,  with  red 
sashes  around  their  waists,  walking,  like 
their  elders,  four-abreast,  led  by  a  sweet  lit- 


A    PERSEVERING    WOMAN 

tie  marshal,  a  1 4-year-old  girl.  She  wears 
a  Phrygian  cap,  and  carries  a  purple  ban 
ner,  looking  the  very  incarnation  of  the  tri 
umphant  Social  Revolution  in  miniature. 

Now  they,  too.  are  gone.  Their  place  is 
taken  by  a  promiscuous  crowd  of  citizens, 
visitors  to  the  Congress  from  different  Swiss 
and  foreign  cities,  and  others,  who  soon 
form  an  orderly  detachment,  and  join  the 
procession. 

Who  comes  next?  Why.  the  delegates, 
to  be  sure.  See  them  arrive,  the  representa 
tives  of  nineteen  nations,  among  whom  there 
are  the  Germans  conscious  of  their  victory 
at  the  polls  a  few  weeks  ago,  a.nd  the  French 
conscious  of  victory  a  few  weeks  hence. 
They  are  gathering  into  one  solid  mass,  and 
as  I  look  at  them,  I  hear  Swinburne  say : 

We  mix  from  many  lands, 

We  march  for  very  far ; 
In  hearts  and  lips  and  hands 

Our  staffs  and  weapons  are ; 
The  light  we  walk  in  darkens  sun  and  moon  and 
star. 


and  again : 


O  nations  undivided, 

O  single  people  and  free, 


152  STORIES    OF    THE    STRUGGLE 

We  dreamers,  we  derided, 

We  mad  blind  men  that  see, 
We  bear  you  witness  ere  you  come  that  ye  shall 
be. 

All  the  same  they,  the  delegates,  though 
the  heroes  of  the  day,  are  probably  the 
cheapest  lot  in  the  show.  Some  have  only 
just  arrived  in  the  city  and  have  been 
pressed  into  service  before  they  had  time  to 
get  a  wash.  Others  have  travelled  all  night 
and  look  fatigued.  A  good  many  seem  to 
be  novices  in  this  kind  of  thing,  as  they 
come  from  countries  where  the  only  kind  of 
processions  allowed  by  the  authorities  is  the 
last  escort  of  friends  to  the  place  of  eternal 
rest, —  the  place  of  freedom  unclaimed  and 
equality  uncontested. 

Now  they,  too,  are  organized  into  a  solid 
body.  I  have  my  eyes  on  them,  all  the  time 
thinking  of  the  little  darlings. 

I  am  to  join  those  others,  but  I  do  not 
seem  to  realize  the  fact.  I  feel  more  lost 
than  Alice  ever  felt  in  Wonderland.  I 
stand  there  and  dream. 

Presently  there  is  a  gentle  tap  at  my 
shoulder.  I  am  startled  at  first,  but  the  sur- 


A    PERSEVERING    WOMAN  153 

prise  turns  out  to  be  a  very  pleasant  one. 
There  is  a  familiar  sound  in  the  words : 

"  Say,  Edward  and  Will  Thorne  are  to 
bring  up  the  rear  as  marshals.  Let  us  two 
march  between  them.  We  Jews  ought  to 
stick  together." 

It  was  poor  Eleanor  Marx  who  spoke. 
She  was  grinning  all  over  her  face,  and  as 
happy  as  possible.  By  "  Edward "  she 
meant,  of  course,  her  husband,  who  only  a 
few  years  later  was  to  be  the  cause  of  her 
untimely  death. 

We  got  into  line.  She  was  talking  all 
the  time,  now  and  then  taking  notice  of  a 
jest  on  the  part  of  her  husband,  sometimes 
answering  a  question  put  to  her  by  Thorne, 
but  allotting  to  me  most  of  her  attention,  as 
I  had  touched  upon  a  topic  always  near  to 
her  heart:  the  life  of  her  father  —  of  Karl 
Marx,  whose  daughter  she  not  only  was, 
but  deserved  to  be. 

After  a  while  she  said : 

"  Not  to  forget.  This  morning  after  the 
close  of  the  session,  I  was  looking  out  for 
you,  but  you  were  gone.  There  is  a  coun- 


154  STORIES    OF    THE   STRUGGLE 

trywoman  of  yours  here  in  Zurich  who  is 
very  anxious  to  be  introduced  to  you." 

"  What  sort  of  a  woman  is  she?  "  I  asked. 

"  A  very  peculiar  one,"  Eleanor  said, 
"  she  struck  me  as  being"  either  a  little  de 
ranged  in  her  mind,  or  a  spy.  She  is  very 
pretty,  though,  and  has  already  attracted  a 
good  deal  of  attention." 

Pretty  women  as  spies  were  then  to  some 
extent  in  vogue.  It  was  the  latest  move  of 
the  Russian  government  in  dealing  with  Ni 
hilism  abroad.  I  knew  of  at  least  one  case 
in  which  a  Russian  refugee  in  Switzerland, 
a  learned  man,  too,  was  victimized  by  a  fe 
male  detective. 

"  Do  you  know  what  she  wants  with 
me?  "  I  asked. 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  I  tried  to  find  it  out,  but 
she  fought  shy  of  me.  .  .  .  Look! 
Here  are  the  children  again.  Aren't  they 
just  lovely  ?  " 

The  procession  was  formed  in  a  kind  of 
a  zigzag,  and  was  so  arranged  as  to  enable 
the  various  detachments  to  see  one  another. 
Every  now  and  then  one  of  them  met  an 
other  marching  parallel  with  it,  only  in  an 


A    PERSEVERING    WOMAN  155 

opposite  direction,  whereat  there  always  was 
great  cheering-,  fraternizing,  and  mutual  sal 
utations. 

"  How  soon  do  you  expect  to  see  her?  " 
I  asked  Eleanor  when  the  children  had  en 
tirely  disappeared  from  view. 

"  Hardly  before  to-morrow  afternoon," 
she  said,  "  she  will  probably  look  me  up  in 
the  hall  as  soon  as  the  morning  session  is 
over." 

That  session  turned  out  to  be  a  stormy 
one,  and  by  the  time  the  hour  for  adjourn 
ment  was  reached  I  had  almost  forgotten  all 
about  the  mysterious  lady.  During  the  af 
ternoon,  the  novelty  of  the  situation  having 
somewhat  worn  off,  I  not  only  thought  of 
her  again,  but  once  or  twice  even  looked 
around  for  her  in  the  part  of  the  hall  which 
was  reserved  for  the  press,  but  was  occa 
sionally  invaded  by  daring  outsiders,  per 
sons  who,  for  aught  that  I  knew  to  the  con 
trary,  might  have  been  dabbling  in  fiction, 
but  certainly  not  of  the  kind  which  is  pub 
lished  as  news.  She  was  not  there.  The 
only  representative  of  the  other  sex  discern 
ible  in  that  portion  of  the  hall  was  the  fa- 


156  STORIES    OF    THE    STRUGGLE 

mous  Vera  Zassoulich,  the  lady  who  in  1878 
had  shot  at  Trepoff,  the  chief  commissioner 
of  the  St.  Petersburg  police,  was  tried  by  a 
jury  and  acquitted,  with  the  result  that  the 
government  never  again  submitted  a  similar 
case  to  a  dozen  "  benighted  idiots  "  from  the 
people. 

Eleanor,  as  one  of  the  translators  (the 
delegates  had  the  choice  of  English,  French 
and  German,  every  speech  being  rendered 
into  two  other  languages)  was  busy  most  of 
the  time,  and  she  could  only  be  approached 
during  recess  or  in  the  evening.  This,  how 
ever,  was  by  no  means  an  easy  matter,  as  she 
was  always  in  great  demand. 

And  so  the  whole  week  passed  by  without 
my  hearing,  to  say  nothing  of  seeing,  any 
thing  of  the  fair  unknown. 

At  noon  on  Saturday,  August  12,  Con 
gress  was  closed,  old  Frederick  Engels,  to 
the  great  surprise  of  most  of  us,  suddenly 
appearing  on  the  platform  to  make  the  clos 
ing  speech,  and  receiving  an  ovation  which 
was  probably  the  most  enthusiastic  he  ever 
was  accorded  in  the  whole  of  his  long  and 
fruitful  public  career.  For  the  afternoon 


A    PERSEVERING    WOMAN  157 

an  excursion  to  the  island  of  Ufenau  was 
planned,  and  duly  carried  into  effect.  We 
went  down  by  steamer,  ever  and  anon 
cheered  from  the  shore  by  hundreds  of 
working  men  and  women  who  had  come 
out  from  work-shops  and  factories  to  have 
a  look  at  the  delegates.  We  had,  both  on 
the  way  and  on  landing,  what  the  romantic 
girl  would  describe  as  a  "  lovely  time." 

On  the  island,  as  the  English  delegation 
congregated  for  the  purpose  of  getting  pho 
tographed  in  a  group,  I  met  Eleanor  and 
found  at  last  an  opportunity  to  exchange  a 
few  words  with  her.  My  mysterious  coun 
trywoman  was  the  "  first  order  of  business." 

"  She  is  here  on  the  grounds."  Eleanor 
said,  "  but  you  had  better  wait  till  we  are 
on  the  boat  again.  There  I  will  easily  spot 
her,  and  bring  her  up  to  you  as  soon  as  I 
see  her.  She  is  evidently  waiting  to  catch 
you  alone." 

On  the  steamer,  however,  I  again  lost 
sight  of  her,  of  Eleanor,  I  mean,  and  was 
soon  an  active  participant  in  an  animated 
discussion  relating  to  something  that  had 
taken  place  during  the  week.  Things  were 


158  STORIES    OF    THE    STRUGGLE 

getting  very  lively  when  somebody  right  be 
hind  me  exclaimed,  in  an  undertone : 
"What  a  charming  woman!"  I  turned 
round,  and  glancing  in  the  direction  the  ad 
mirer  of  the  beautiful  was  looking  out,  I 
made  sure  I  had  at  last  met  the  mysterious 
lady. 

She  would  have  struck  you  as  a  woman 
still  young  who  was  charming  without  be 
ing  beautiful.  The  shape  of  her  chin,  the 
cut  of  her  mouth,  her  somewhat  stern  look, 
and  nervous  manner  made  it  perfectly  clear 
to  you  that  you  were  face  to  face  with  a 
strong,  perhaps  headstrong,  determined  and 
excitable  woman.  She  spoke  in  short,  crisp 
sentences,  at  times  so  laconic  as  to  recall  to 
your  mind  Alfred  Jingle  Esquire  of  Pick 
wickian  fame. 

The  preliminaries  over,  she  told  me  her 
story. 

II 

It  began,  it  appears,  in  1877.  As  a 
motherless  girl  of  barely  sixteen,  Amy  (for 
that  was  her  name)  came  with  her  sick 
father  to  Koenigsberg  in  Prussia.  In  that 


A    PERSEVERING    WOMAN  159 

town  there  lived  at  that  time  a  famous  sur 
geon,  the  son  of  a  still  more  famous  one, 
who  was  almost  worshipped  by  Polish  and 
Lithuanian  Jews,  though  himself  a  German 
and  a  gentile. 

Amy's  father  was  successfully  operated 
upon,  but  was  not  to  be  moved,  not  out  of 
town,  at  least,  for  several  months.  All  that 
time  Amy  nursed  her  father  during  the  day, 
and  was  relieved  by  a  trained  nurse  in  the 
evenings. 

The  old  man  being  well  to  do,  she  could 
afford  to  spend  her  leisure  hours  in  theatres, 
at  concerts,  and  wherever  else  pleasure  of 
one  kind  or  another  was  for  sale.  Of  all 
this,  however,  she  soon  began  to  tire,  and 
she  was  overjoyed  when  someone  of  her  ac 
quaintance  suggested  public  lectures.  More 
than  that.  She  was  to  hear  something 
about  Socialism. 

In  Russia  she  managed  to  find  out  just 
enough  concerning  the  new  Gospel  to  make 
her  curious  about  it.  She,  therefore,  eagerly 
seized  the  first  opportunity  to  listen  to  a 
learned  discourse  on  the  subject,  albeit  the 
lecturer  by  no  means  was  one  of  those  great 


l6o  STORIES    OF    THE    STRUGGLE 

orators  whose  fame  had  reached  her  native 
Byalistock.  And  she  was  really  disap 
pointed.  The  talk,  forsooth,  was  fiery 
enough  to  suit  her  temperament,  but  prosaic, 
and  entirely  different  from  what,  in  her 
opinion,  a  socialist  talk  had  to  sound  like. 
Still,  after  the  lapse  of  a  fortnight  or  so,  she 
went  again. 

This  time  it  was  a  man  of  science,  Pro 
fessor  Moeller  of  the  Koenigsberg  Univer 
sity,  who  was  to  smite  the  Socialists  hip  and 
thigh.  He  certainly  did  his  best,  and  the 
adherents  of  the  attacked  party  looked  pretty 
crestfallen  as  the  discourse  was  brought  to 
an  end  amid  the  rapturous  cheers  of  our  op 
ponents.  , 

In  the  discussion  that  followed  the  lecture 
a  tall,  handsome  young  man  got  up,  and  the 
tables  were  turned  before  he  uttered  his 
third  or  fourth  sentence.  He  fairly  "  wiped 
the  floor  "  with  the  great  scientific  luminary, 
assailing  and  effectively  pulverizing  the 
professor's  supposedly  most  invulnerable 
stronghold,  his  ancient  history,  Spartans 
and  all.  The  effect  was  dramatic  in  the 
extreme,  and  the  scientist's  somewhat  lame 


A    PERSEVERING    WOMAN  l6l 

reply  only  served  to  emphasize  the  Socialist 
victory. 

The  young  man,  without  knowing  it,  car 
ried  away  little  Amy's  heart  as  a  trophy  of 
his  passage  at  arms,  of  that  David-Goliath 
encounter,  while  she  herself  hardly  realized 
the  departure  of  her  heart.  Like  many  oth 
ers,  she  went  up  to  the  speaker  and  shook 
hands  with  him,  not  suspecting  the  gravity 
of  her  position  until  she  read  in  the  local 
paper  that  her  hero  had  left  for  Berlin, 
whence  he  had  come  to  Koenigsberg  on  a 
Diving  visit. 

*     *     * 

Returned  to  Russia,  the  old  man  had  a 
relapse  and  died.  Amy  who  came  into  quite 
a  little  fortune,  was  placed  under  a  guard 
ian.  With  his  consent  she  went  the  follow 
ing  summer  to  Berlin,  ostensibly  to  study 
medicine  or  something.  By  dint  of  a  most 
diligent  search,  taking  in  several  visits  to  the 
socialist  daily  paper  ("  Die  Berliner  Freie 
Presse,"  of  which  John  Most  then  was  the 
editor  in  chief)  and  all  public  meetings  ac 
cessible  to  young  women,  she  at  last  found 
the  man  who  had  run  away  with  her  heart. 


1 62  STORIES    OF   THE   STRUGGLE 

They  soon  renewed  their  acquaintance, 
each  finding  the  other  mentally  grown  out 
of  all  proportion  to  the  time  since  elapsed. 
Amy  now  looked  physically  also  much  riper, 
even  than  her  age.  They  came  nearer  and 
closer  to  each  other  every  time  they  met. 
At  this  stage  Cupid  took  a  hand  in  the  game, 
and  Amy  decided  to  try  and  arrange  mat 
ters  with  her  guardian  as  soon  as  she  got 
back  to  Russia.  Meanwhile,  and  for  a 
while,  all  was  bliss  and  happiness. 

"  For  a  while  " —  for  two  reasons. 

In  the  first  place  the  gag-and-muzzle  law 
against  the  Socialists,  as  a  consequence  of 
the  two  attempts  on  the  old  Emperor's  life, 
got  things  in  general  very  much  mixed. 
Five  "  responsible "  editors  of  the  Berlin 
daily  above  mentioned  were  now  in  jail,  and 
every  Socialist  known  either  as  a  writer  or 
as  a  speaker  had  the  sword  of  Damocles 
visibly  suspended  over  his  neck. 

Secondly,  because  the  Frenchman  is  right. 
He,  I  mean,  who  in  plain  defiance  of  all  that 
the  poets  from  time  immemorial  have  said 
and  sung,  maintains  that  there  is  in  reality 
no  such  thing  as  mutual  love;  that  what  gen- 


A    PERSEVERING    WOMAN  163 

erally  happens  is  what  I  am  going  to  put  in 
a  separate  sentence.  Of  every  two  people 
in  love  one  loves,  while  the  other  suffers 
himself  or  herself  to  be  loved. 

The  latter  seems  to  have  been  the  part 
played  by  Amy's  young  friend. 

"  He  came  one  evening,"  Amy  went  on 
excitedly  in  her  narrative,  "  and  told  me  we 
must  part.  He  protested  his  '  undying  '  love 
for  me,  but  .  .  .  well,  there  were  many 
'  buts.'  I  was  too  young.  Worse  still,  I 
was  too  rich.  Also  too  pretty.  Would  take 
no  mean  advantage.  Wouldn't  lay  himself 
open  to  suspicion  that  he  was  after  my 
money.  Then  that  Minor  State  of  Siege. 
Berlin  will  soon  be  under  it.  There  will  be 
expulsions  galore.  May  be  something  still 
worse.  Couldn't  allow  me  to  share  in  it. 
Dares  not  do  it.  Against  his  principles. 

"  I  said  nothing.  Was  even  too  proud  to 
cry.  Got  nearly  choked  with  sobs,  but 
maintained  control.  Wonder  how  I  man 
aged  it.  But  I  did.  We  parted." 

Her  conqueror  retreated.  As  she  was 
talking  I  thought  I  saw  Moscow  in  flames, 
and  Napoleon  beating  a  hasty  retreat  leav- 


164  STORIES    OF    THE    STRUGGLE 

ing  behind  him  his  erstwhile  coveted  con 
quest.  Well,  it  was  not  he  who  set  fire  to 
it,  was  it  ?  What  a  pity,  all  the  same ! 

Ill 

The  steamer,  meanwhile,  reached  its  Zu 
rich  landing,  and  we  all  went  ashore.  I  in 
vited  her  to  join  our  little  circle  in  the  even 
ing,  which  she  did,  and  in  the  course  of  the 
few  hours  I  spent  in  her  company  I  got  out 
of  her  the  rest  of  her  story.  This  was  ac 
complished  not  without  difficulty,  and  by 
snatches,  as  we  were  considerably  inter 
rupted  during  the  evening. 

And  to  start  with  I  put  to  her  a  question 
which  the  reader  must  have  had  on  the  tip  of 
his  tongue  all  the  time. 

"  Your  story,"  I  said  to  her  at  the  first 
chance  I  got,  "  is  beyond  doubt  very  inter 
esting,  but  I  fail  to  see  why  you  tell  it  to 
me." 

"  Well,  she  said  with  something  like  the 
suspicion  of  a  smile  on  her  lips,  a  sane  per 
son  would  have  begun  by  such  an  explana 
tion.  The  fact  of  the  matter  is,  I  expect  you 
to  help  me.  That's  why  I  took  such  pains 


A    PERSEVERING    WOMAN  165 

to  find  you.  That's  why  I  waited  till  con 
gress  was  closed  and  your  labors  over;  I 
wanted  to  have  you  in  the  proper  frame  of 
mind.  You  can  help  me." 

"  Help  you  do  what  ?  "  I  asked, 

"  Help  me  find  him,"  she  said. 

"  What  makes  you  think  I  can  ?  " 

"  I'll  tell  you.  You  are  a  countryman  of 
mine,  you  are  an  active  Socialist,  and  you 
have  worked,  for  a  few  years,  I  understand, 
among  German-speaking  people.  Moreover, 
you  left  Germany  about  the  same  time  that 
he  did.  like  him,  too,  being  expelled  under 
the  new  law.  You  see,  I  have  your  record 
pretty  correct,  haven't  I  ?  " 

I  nodded  assent. 

Proceeding,  she  informed  me  that  she 
knew  him  to  be  somewhere  in  or  about 
London.  Considering  that  I  had  uninter 
ruptedly  lived  in  that  town  for  about  14 
years,  I  should  be  able  to  do  for  her  what 
hardly  anybody  else  could  do. 

Without  exactly  sharing  her  opinion  re 
garding  my  fitness  for  the  service  she  de 
sired  to  assign  to  me,  I  promised  to  do  the 
best  I  could,  provided  I  knew  what  she  her- 


1 66  STORIES   OF    THE   STRUGGLE 

self  had  done  by  way  of  locating  him  in  the 
British  metropolis. 

She  then  informed  me  that  between  1879 
and  1889  she  had  been  in  London  three 
times,  on  one  occasion  staying  there  fully 
six  months. 

"  I  visited,"  she  said,  "  every  Socialist  or 
radical  haunt;  attended  every  lecture;  took 
part  in  every  parade;  was  at  every  trade- 
union  meeting  held  in  public ;  found,  out  all 
I  could  about  the  personnel  of  every  pro 
gressive  newspaper;  acquired  a  thorough 
knowledge  of  the  German  and  French  quar 
ters;  took  meals  in  every  restaurant  and 
cook-shop  around  Fitzroy  Square,  Totten 
ham  Court  Road  and  all  over  the  East  End ; 
frequented  the  British  Museum  reading 
room;  spent  hours  and  hours  in  the  Soho 
Square  Club. 

"  I  did  more.  Rain  or  shine,  I  went  two 
or  three  times  every  week  to  the  big  railway 
stations.  Kept  watch  on  all  incoming  sub 
urban  trains  in  the  morning.  Watched 
trains  to  suburbs  in  the  evening.  More  than 
once  I  fancied*  I  spotted  him.  Illusions." 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  she  uttered 


A    PERSEVERING    WOMAN  l6/ 

the  last  few  words.  She  looked  embar 
rassed,  as  if  ashamed  of  the  tears. 

"  What,"  I  asked  her,  "  makes '  you  so 
sure  that  he  is  in  London  at  all  ?  " 

"  That's  beyond  doubt,"  she  said,  "  for  I 
saw  him  there." 

"You  did,  did  you?" 

"  Yes,  once.  Caught  sight  of  him  sitting 
on  the  top  of  a  'bus  going  west.  Six  or 
seven  months  ago.  Followed  first  impulse, 
and  ran  after  it.  Soon  realized  futility  of 
it.  Might  have  beckoned  to  conductor  to 
stop  'bus  when  it  passed.  Was  startled. 
Left  undone  most  natural  thing  there  was 
to  do.  Then  it  was  too  late." 

"  Now  what,  pray,  can  I  do  for  you  ?  "  I 
asked  her,  placing  the  accent  on  the  "  I." 

"  Well,"  she  said  hesitatingly,  "  when  you 
come  back  to  London  you  might  look  up  a 
few  people  whom  I  can't  go  and  see  myself. 
Can't  for  a  variety  of  reasons.  One  of  them 
is  my  sex.  By  no  means  the  most  important 
reason,  though.  Will  you  do  it  ?  " 

"  Why,  of  course !  "  I  answered. 

"  Thanks,  ever  so  much !  "  said  she. 

We  then  arranged   that   I   should   write 


1 68  STORIES   OF   THE   STRUGGLE 

to  her  to  Zurich  as  soon  as  I  had  any  news 
for  her. 

*     *     * 

For  a  month  or  so  my  endeavors  were 
entirely  fruitless.  As  a  consequence  I  had 
nothing  to  communicate  to  my  new  friend 
when  answering  her  frequent,  though  short 
letters.  Despairing  of  me,  she  came  to  Lon 
don.  Many  more  weeks  passed  by  without 
our  united  efforts  showing  any  results. 

One  day  she  looked  me  up  at  my  office. 
A  glance  at  her  was  enough  to  indicate  an 
important  turn  in  her  fortunes.  She  seemed 
to  be  out  of  breath. 

"  Have  a  clue !  "  she  exclaimed  as  soon  as 
she  regained  it.  "  Studying  directory,  as 
usual.  Happy  thought  flashed  across  my 
mind.  His  name  is  easily  translated  into 
English.  Am  sure  he  has  done  it.  Wants 
a.  veil  drawn  over  his  past.  Common  thing 
among  political  refugees  here." 

She  must  have  read  something  sinister  in 
my  eyes,  for  she  added  almost  pleadingly : 

"  Oh,  he  is  surely  still  an  honorable  man, 
whatever  his  present  occupation  .  .  ." 

Of  course,  I  did  not  gainsay  it. 


A    PERSEVERING    WOMAN  169 

We  started  out  on  a  new  quest,  following 
up  her  clue.  She  turned  out  to  have  been 
successful  at  last. 

As  we  reached  Drury  Lane,  where  we 
were  to  find  our  man,  she  got  very  excited. 

"  Listen,"  she  said,  "  never  divulge  his 
name  to  anybody.  I  have  a  foreboding. 
'  Sylvester  H.'  is  my  Sylvester.  But  keep 
it  all  to  yourself." 

"  What  shall  we  do  ?  "  I  asked  her. 

"  It's  just  luncheon  time.  Let  us  go  into 
the  restaurant  across  the  street.  He  takes 
his  meals  there.  I  will  recognize  him  at 
once.  Heavens!  Hope  it  is  not  he  .  .  ." 

"  You  hope  not  ?  " 

"  I  hope  not,  no,  I  hope  not  .  .  . 
though  I  don't  think  it  possible  .  .  .  ." 

An  hour  later  she  was  sitting  on  a  bench 
in  Regent's  Park,  broken-hearted,  poor  girl. 

The  vanquisher  of  Professor  Moeller  kept 
a  shop  now  in  London,  kept  a  pawn-shop. 

Before  parting  from  her  I  thought  it  my 
duty  to  say  a  few  words  of  consolation.  She 
seemed  to  ignore  my  existence.  I  proffered 
my  hand  as  I  said  good-bye.  She  took  it, 
vaguely  looked  into  my  face,  then  in  a  tone 


I7O  STORIES    OF    THE    STRUGGLE 

that  baffles  description,  accompanied  by 
something  like  a  cross  between  a  laugh  and 
a  cry,  she  muttered : 

"  My  poor,  fatherless  child !  " 


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